In desperate need of a trim, I took a chance a nearby salon would have an opening. Packed they were, but they squeezed me in. A delightful young man spoke often of how much he would support and help me in whatever I needed as I tipped my head back in the gray wash sink. I moved on to Christian.

Christian is a reincarnation of Edward Scissors Hands without so much make-up. I said one line in how i wanted it cut. We barely spoke again. He opened the drawer in front of my chair and took out a box. Inside was a delicate, sharp, titanium scissors. The tool of his trade. He lifted my hair in sections and began cutting, but I could feel or hear nothing. It was as if the instrument was just an extension of his hand. There wasn’t even any sound.

After cutting he began blow drying it with a big brush. I kept my eyes shut to avoid looking at the paleness of my skin in the current of fluorescent light. Finished. My hair was pouffy. Not beehive pouffy, but for me the get-up-and-go-type girl, more bouncy than I could ever get at home.

You like? he said.

Yes, I said, wishing I had somewhere to go to show off the spring in my hair. My kids sat outside the shop patiently waiting. We walked stopped for ice cream and walked home in the drizzling rain.