At 27, Cheryl B. has performed her work extensively throughout New York City, the Pacific Northwest, London, and Australia. She is the author of three chapbooks of prose, the recipient of an international playwriting fellowship, and a second-round finalist in the Austin Film Festival Screenplay Competition. A native New Yorker, she makes her nest on the south side of Williamsburg, Brooklyn with her feline companion, Sabrina.

The Hair
Reprinted with author's permission from
new york girl
by Cheryl B.
cheryl@jezebelle2000.com
bytheseatofyourpantspress
P.O. Box 892
New York, NY 10009

He told her a lie, a little lie about the way the moonlight shone on her hair, he phrased it as "danced upon her head." But in reality, she embarrassed him with her incessant dying, blow-drying and abuse of fixatives. Her hair was so saturated with outside elements that it could not possibly hold any light. It was brittle to the touch and the ends flew away in a schizophrenic fury as if they could not he helped or stopped by anything. He was not a happy hairdresser. As a matter of fact, he was appalled. Didn’t she realize she was wearing his name on her head everywhere she went? Especially here at the roof party in front of mutual friends. Everyone knew he cut her hair. And for her to leave the house looking like that! The bangs he so delicately placed in front of the classy middle part; the ends he curled under with care to frame her face just so, the
sides meticulously planned to bring out the extremely hidden cheekbones, a grandiose feat for anyone, all brought to a shambles with the careless mop she shamelessly wore upon her head.

As they spoke at the edge of the roof, the lights of the city illuminating the sky behind them, they sipped their drinks. She began to tell him about the new shoes she had purchased, he smiles then quickly drowns out her speech and turns his mind toward the rest of the evening. He couldn’t possibly let her go to The Club with that hairdo. The entire place would know he was responsible for that matted beret of knots. She needed a makeover, pronto. He knew what he had to do. He would cut her hair. Transform her from the "before" picture standing in front of him to a walking resume of his talents. As always, he had his scissors and spray bottle on him. Now all he had to do was convince her that she needed that haircut right there on the roof. He faced an ancient artistic dilemma, "how do you kill the monster you have created?" He decided a
coercive approach involving personal manipulation and the promise of career advancement would work best.

He pointed out a random man on the roof. "You see that guy over there?"

"Yes", she answered.

"He’s a big off-off Broadway producer."

"Oh, really."

"Yes, I think he might like you. He’s looking for women to cast in this new play."

Her eyes lit up. She’d been having bad casting luck for the past theater season and was more than eager to get a part.

"The thing is he wants a pageboy."

"A pageboy?"

"Yes. A pageboy haircut. The play is called ‘Pageboy’. It’s a musical about women with pageboy haircuts."

"I don’t know if that would be good for me, for my face. What do you think?"

Anything would be better than what you look like now, he thought to himself.

"Sure, why not?" He stated. "Something different, it might be fun. It might help you get the part."

"Well, I guess you are my hairdresser and my friend. I value your opinion."

"This won’t take long."

He chose the pageboy style because it would allow him enough cutting space to remove the frayed ends. Given the overgrown root situation, the pageboy would get rid of most the dead, dry mess, leaving some sort of vitality to the hair.

He sat her on the edge of the roof and took out his beloved set of tools. A crowd formed around him, eager to watch him work his magic. He began to wet her hair with the spray bottle. An onlooker commented, "I love to watch him work."

Another added, "He’s a real master." It was then that it hit him, starting first in his spine and gently taking over his entire body with explosions of goodness and light.  Suddenly, he was fierce and the people around him beautiful even the hair demon, whose wet locks felt like silk to his fingertips. He smiled at her. She smiled at him. The crowd smiled at them. The ecstacy was good. They were all in this moment.

The lights of metropolis were phenomenal. He began to cut the hair. He closed his eyes and his hands moved in a melodic flow as if he were conducting the symphony of noise on the avenue below.

The crowd was astonished.

"He’s so awesome", said a spectator.

"He could cut hair with his hands tied behind his back" another added.

His mind traveled back in time, to his childhood of hidden Barbie Heads and concealed Farah Fawcett posters. Standing mutely in left field as baseballs grazed the side of his head, only to later find that his locker had been robbed of his beloved Miss Piggy photos. He was immediately filled with a heightened sense of bitterness.

Quick, he thought, return to the other world.

He opened his eyes and saw the admiring group of friends and acquaintances.

"He’s so fabulous," said a woman with tears in her eyes.

"He’s the best," her awe-inspired friend added.

The hair was done. She looked fabulous. The crowd burst into intense applause. He trimmed the last few pieces from her forehead. They were quickly picked up by the Slight summer breeze and swooshed dramatically down to their final resting place on the lukewarm cement. It was time to boogie.

Next: Lauren Sanders