A Cut
The year is 1964. The Vietnam war is in full swing, the Civil Rights Act has been freshly signed, and the Beatles are an international phenomenon. But something of even grander proportions is making its mark in a humble ladies’ hair salon in the middle of a country town. A hairdresser’s assistant by the name of Charise Fentwood has spent much of her life considered unexceptional by most, and completely forgettable by the remainder. Unbeknownst to her, Miss Fentwood is about to make a choice that will secure the eternal gaze of everyone she knows and loves.
Our story begins on a wet, summer afternoon. Miss Fentwood has spent much of the day sweeping up the clippings of the many customers going about their lives; people paying little attention or care to who she is and what she is doing. Her only solace being the shop’s ticking clock, counting down the seconds of her long shift. A double-edge sword, as she knew the same clock would bring her back to sweeping the floors the very next day.
“Charise. You paying attention?”
“Sorry, Mrs Vandersmith. I’m lost in my own world.”
“It’s Dot. I won’t tell you again.”
“Sorry, Mrs…Dot.”
“Go wash Mrs Goldman’s hair out, would you. I need Joan in more than one place right now.”
“I can always take over for her, for one customer. I know my way around a pair of scissors.”
“That’s sweet, Charise, but you aren’t trained for it. Just stick to washing and sweeping for now.”
It was never Mrs Vandersmith’s intention to make Charise feel lesser, but that’s what she did. Day after day. She wasn’t a malicious woman, nor did she harbour any other feelings for Charise but indifference. She simply had never considered what her employee might desire past a regular paycheck. A desire so immense that—for those listening—it could be heard through the wind and rain.
Reluctantly, Miss Fentwood did as she was told. She attended to customers, providing warm towels and shampooed freshly cut hair, listening into the lives of those with smiles on their faces and joy in their eyes. Fingertips soaking in suds; Miss Fentwood found herself lost in her own reflection. The chatter of the hair salon faded into a gentle mumble. The summer sun dipped behind ever-growing rain clouds. There was silence.
Miss Fentwood looked around. Everyone continued to go about their day but not a sound could be heard, with a single exception.
“Miss Fentwood.”
A slender customer appeared at her side, seemingly out of nowhere. He was wearing a white shirt and trousers with a pink tie, and a stylish combover. His eyes were locked on Miss Fentwood, one of which was made of glass.
“Miss Fentwood. I am here for a cut.”
“Oh. Sorry, but I’m not a hairdresser. I’m an assistant. I can lead you to one of the traine—”
“Miss Fentwood. I am here for a cut.”
The customer stared. Not quite at her, but more through her. As if she weren’t even there. A look she found familiar. He walked past her and stood by a salon chair.
“Sir, as I mentioned, I can’t help you. I—”
“Miss Fentwood. I am here for a cut.”
Miss Fentwood took pause. The busy of the salon continued around her yet somehow became distant in her mind. Her focus was entirely locked on the mystery man, regardless of the extent to which she was truly interested in him.
After a moment, Miss Fentwood did as she was asked. She brushed down an empty chair and sat the man down, covering his white shirt with a crimson hairdressing cape. There she observed his perfectly kempt hair. There was nothing to cut. Standing with a pair of scissors in one hand and a comb in the other, she questioned what she could do. The customer wished for a cut but, even if she were trained to do as he wished, the customer had no imperfections. Bar one. A single long strand of hair stretched from the centre of his crown all the way down to his neck.
He wanted a cut, and that’s what she’d give him. She stretched open the scissors, placing the blades against his lonely lock, and prepared to slice through.
“Miss Fentwood.” The customer halted her blades.
“Yes?”
“What would you do to be seen?”
“I’m sorry?”
The customer didn’t immediately repeat his question. He stared at Miss Fentwood in the mirror with his single eye knowing that his question would reverberate in her mind a few more times.
“People see me…” Miss Fentwood hunched her shoulders as she looked around the room. The ladies of the salon chatted away, laughing and smiling at each of their stories and jokes, taking no notice of the lone man in the room or his new hairdresser.
“What would you do to be seen?”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing I could do would keep their attention for long.”
“Give me a cut and I will provide the answer.”
The customer gave no hint of what he could do for Miss Fentwood, nor evidence that his offer was genuine. Yet, Miss Fentwood’s longing to be noticed got the better of her.
Snip. She was finished.
The customer lurched out of his chair and spun to face Miss Fentwood once again. He placed his hand on her scissor-wielding hand and pushed it up against her chest.
“The answer is in your hand.”
Before Miss Fentwood could ask the customer for clarification, he was gone. Disappeared into the air. Then suddenly, noise. The room’s chatter and busyness crashed into Miss Fentwood’s ears all at once, to the point where she almost missed someone calling her name.
“Charise! Get over here!”
“Yes, Mrs Vandersmith.”
Mrs Vandersmith was standing behind a woman of remarkable beauty, as many would often say. This woman was Miss Nancy Millerson. Miss Millerson shared much in common with Miss Fentwood. They both enjoyed spending time with their cats, growing tomato plants on their window sill, and knitting clothes for the local shelter. This made it especially meaningful to Miss Fentwood when she was told to do the following.
“Cut her hair, would you.” Mrs Vandersmith was fluffing her customer’s hair up and admiring her vibrant, red curls.
“But Mrs Vandersmith, you said I wasn’t ready for it.”
“Don’t question me in front of the customers, Charise. I jumped to conclusions before and you were right. It’s time to give you a chance. All she needs is a trim, so have at it. I’ll be watching from my chair.”
With that, Mrs Vandersmith meandered over to a chair in the corner where she sipped at a coffee and flicked through a magazine.
No matter how carefully and completely one imagines the details of a new experience, the affair itself goes far from what one pictures. Even should your plans go swimmingly, there is always an outlying factor left unconsidered. Yet, for Miss Fentwood, this was entirely untrue. The many hours of imagining success in her field seemed like nothing but distant daydreams as they happened, but cutting Miss Millerson’s hair changed that opinion.
Her first attempt was flawless.
She glided her scissors through the thick mane of red and produced a style so shocking and so sensational that everyone in the salon stopped their conversations. They stared. Miss Millerson was left in tears. She had never felt so beautiful and wondered in that moment why she was so afraid to leave the comfort of her plants and pets.
“Charise…How did you do that?” asked Mrs Vandersmith.
“I just cut.”
“Do it again.”
The next day brought more surprises for Miss Fentwood. Where most days she was expected to prepare the salon for the day to come, she was instead met by a long line of eager customers waiting for the place to open. The line ran around the corner and burst into screams of excitement when they spotted Miss Fentwood approaching the establishment. They begged and pleaded that she would have time for them, forcing her to push and shove her way to the door.
“You’re finally here!” exclaimed Mrs Vandersmith with more joy than had ever been witnessed in public.
“I’m early. What is all this?”
“The news of your haircuts has been spreading through the town like wildfire. We’re booked to the brim and people are asking to come in just to see you work. You’re a sensation, Charise.”
“Really? I’m proud of the job I did, but they really aren’t worth all of this hullabaloo.”
“It’s not just the haircuts, Charise. It’s more. Nancy was scouted yesterday by a model agency because he loved her look. She’s going straight to the cover of Cosmo! And Miss Brown from the bakery is now Mrs Williams! Her bo proposed on the spot the moment she met up with him and they eloped overnight. Even Josephine from down the road is saying your cut helped her ace her college exam this morning. There’s more too, but we don’t have the time. You need to start cutting.”
Mrs Vandersmith pulled open the door and Miss Fentwood’s overnight fans spilled into the room. They rushed to her side, begging to be the first, regardless of booking order. Miss Fentwood pulled away from the grabbing hands, unsure why her immediate thought was to fight them off. She wanted them gone. But, like a good employee, she got to work.
Hour after hour, Miss Fentwood cut hair. Not in the way most hairdressers might, with careful precision and deliberation, but more like someone trimming their fast-growing hedge. Miss Fentwood was far from lazy. Yet, after the first three hours she quickly realised all of her customers were pleased with their hair styles, regardless of quality. People left with uneven cuts, incorrect styles, and even bald patches, and all found themselves leaving with a smile. In their minds, every cut was flawless. They all wanted the Fentwood look.
It was lunchtime when Miss Fentwood realised the line outside wasn’t getting shorter. People were travelling from nearby towns to get their hair cut by her. Even gentlemen were queuing for a chance of a snip. None of this was of particular concern to her until the day came to a close.
With blisters developing under her skin, Miss Fentwood found herself exhausted and satisfied with a good day’s work. At 7pm, her day was done. She needed rest.
“I’m sorry everyone, but that’s it for today. Come back tomorrow if you want a cut,” she declared to the long queue.
Unfortunately, her declaration went of deaf ears. The inside of the salon continued to fill with eager clients, all of them begging for one more cut.
“Please Miss Fentwood. I need this for my marriage,” said one woman.
“Don’t listen to her! She’s not even married. Cut my hair. I need a promotion and only you can make that happen!”
“Miss Fentwood, I just want to feel your hands in my hair. I know you’ll take good care of me.”
Hands of strangers grabbed at Miss Fentwood. This time, she was not afraid to shy away from their advances, but it didn’t stop them. More and more surrounded her. A pair of hands turned into several, which then turned into dozens. Miss Fentwood was trapped.
“I’m done today! Back off! You have to wait your turn!”
Her pleas went unheard again. A wall of eyes watched her every move.
They begged.
One woman pressed her body closer to Miss Fentwood, grabbing her hand and placing a pair of scissors in them.
“Please. Just one snip. Just a cut,” the woman said as she pulled at Miss Fentwood’s hand. In that moment, Miss Fentwood realised the woman was in fact Mrs Vandersmith. She struggled for a moment, but Miss Fentwood was unable to resist as the mob of hands all clasped the scissors to witness just one more cut.
A cut was less than what was given.
Miss Fentwood completely lost control over her own hand. The blades were shaking as dozens of hands pulled them towards Mrs Vandersmith’s head. Inch by inch, the scissors approached. Then a cut. They cut deep and effortlessly into her eye socket and pulled out her eye.
Miss Fentwood recoiled and screamed in horror and watched as Mrs Vandersmith smiled.
She was elated. Ecstatic. She had her turn. Next.
Miss Fentwood failed to pull away as customer after customer pulled her scissors through their hair, skin, and bone. Nothing seemed to dull them. Nothing seemed to slow them. The room was covered in red within minutes and bodies of those cutting too deep littered the floor, but nothing stopped the mob from begging for more cuts.
Their screams of joy faded. Muffled. But their faces were still smiling. Hands continued to guide the blades through flesh. Then suddenly, the customer in white returned.
He stood at the side of the mob, watching Miss Fentwood struggle.
“I’m here for a cut.”
“Please help me! You have to make them stop. I want to go back to the way it was. I’ll do anything!”
“I’ll take a cut.”
“Yes! Please! Anything to make it stop.”
The customer in white bent down to the floor and picked up one of the now dozen eyes. He slowly plunged his fingers into his own eye socket, removing the glass eye and throwing it to the floor, replacing the gap with the freshly gouged eye.
“You may keep the rest.”
And then, he was gone. No helping hand or solution provided. Miss Fentwood was simply left to bathe in the adoration of her fans.
Miss Fentwood lived a modest life. But a choice she made based on the empty promises of a stranger were enough to take that life away. Now, the centre of the public eye, Miss Fentwood will never again know the safety and stability that comes with obscurity.