Hairdresser on Fire by Daniel LeVesque

Author:Daniel LeVesque
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Manic D Press, Inc.

II

The analysis of scalps has become the basis of my new theory, an offshoot of Phrenology, the study of the skull made infamous by Dr. Joseph Gall and his fellow anatomists in the 1800s. My theory goes deeper, ignoring the shape of the skull and the flippant stereotyping that goes along with it. Phrenologists looked at the book and never the cover. It’s too bad; they were so close.

While peeling back the skin of cadavers to get a closer look at the bone structure of the cranium — its bumps, notches and minute variations — they erased the very information they were seeking. While running his hands over the heads of the nobles, becoming a glorified fortune teller for the jet set of the day, Dr. Gall overlooked the solution: that the answers lie in the scalp itself.

The condition of that layer of skin, coating all of those cranial bumps, offers specifics the bumps themselves cannot. That skin, so fascinating in its supple tension; the incredible density of blood vessels waiting below its surface, waiting to spurt with one quick slip of my shears, it can sing. From the front hairline, over the parietal ridge and to the base of the occipital protuberance, the scalp holds in the secrets of the brain within. Secrets thin enough to slip through bone. When the room starts spinning and the secrets come out, I want to slice scalp clean off with my straight razor. I want to expose their transgressions to the world. I want to free them.

Instead I chew my lip as I scrub their scalps, massaging their containers until they drift off. As the clear water runs through the filth of their hair I whisper a silent prayer to bring another day of serving others to an end, praying that nobody fills me with psychic pain as they sit in my chair. There isn’t enough time to process it, all that pain. I always finish up as fast as I can before a new demon walks in requesting a wash and set.

People tell me everything. Without prodding or consent, clients go quickly past the white lie of a few foil highlights straight to the guts of their inner demons. The secrets of marital infidelity. The secrets of alcoholism, of abuse, of murder. While their confessions are no more than blathering fantasy pouring from the mouths of pathological liars, I prefer to take their stories as truth, to be both polite and entertained. Only her hairdresser knows for sure. No shit.

The contact made its origin at the fare-box of the 22 Fillmore bus, snaking around briefcases and wheelchairs until it reached the center back seat of the bus, where I sat. A screaming HELLO! from her retinas to mine. She smiled at me as I forced my eyes to my feet and my shoulders threw themselves at each other. She was about to start waving. I have no idea who she is, let alone assign her a name, but I am sure that I have touched her scalp before.

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