by Asha D.
Lara’s Haircut
Under the aquamarine dome of that glorious Sunday morning, Lara walked spiritedly, jingling loose change in her pockets. She walked with a bashful pride borne from being granted the freedom to head out by herself. It was only across the familiar street that she was heading, towards the familiar barber’s shop she always visited. Yet, she felt the acute difference between being led there by an adult and going all by her very own self, like a proper lady. She was Morning Glory unraveling her dewy petals to the bright warmth of the sun after an especially long night.
Lara was widely aware of her route as she went- the weekenders in colorful gear, the scents of exhaust mixed into the humid summer air, the shimmering silver of pavement she stepped on. She crossed the road cautiously, being sure to look both ways first, very responsibly, and took a right turn upon reaching the Super- mart. On she went until she came to the small car- park littered with a few glimmering pop cans and some floating pieces of grocery bags. She crossed the empty parking lot, eyeing the barber’s shop up ahead.
Old Mr. Oliver’s pale, papery face hovered to the surface of Lara’s mind. She remembered how he always welcomed her mother and her with wide blue eyes crinkling at the edges and a smile that must’ve once caused the ladies’ hearts to flutter. All the ladies and their children were automatically directed towards Mr. Oliver in this particular shop; under the direction of his practiced hands, any girl or woman’s hair, no matter how utterly disobedient, would manage to mold into the most flattering positions. The familiar faces that somehow seemed transformed entirely, would shock friends and relatives of Mr. Oliver’s customers. They would wonder how they could have previously dismissed these friends as ordinary, not blessed with any attributions of the aesthetically charming. A slight smile played upon Lara’s lips as she spied Mr. Oliver’s white wispy hair through the wide, arched brick entrance to the shop.
“Hello my dear, how are you?” he exclaimed warmly as Lara trotted in. “I remember you. Lovely to see you again, my dear! Where’s your mother, sweetie? It’s time to retouch her roots, isn’t it?” Mr. Oliver’s sparkling eyes swept the empty parking lot. Lara softly explained that it was just she today, and Mr. Oliver beamed knowingly. He led her to the huge reclined armchairs by the hair- washing basins, all the while proclaiming various observations about her hair and how she may have it done this time.
Lara laid back onto a leather seat and let her head fall back into the wide mouth of the basin. Mr. Oliver flayed her dirty blonde hair out and ran his strong, veined fingers through her tangles. He started the showerhead and waited a while for it to warm to the right temperature before bringing it above her head. The warm licks of water sent tickling, trickling sensations down from her crown all the way to Lara’s toes, and she fought from bursting into giggles. Mr. Oliver next lathered some shampoo into her hair and Lara breathed in the tangy scent of a countryside field filled with green apple trees. Mr. Oliver’s tough and seasoned hands worked their way all around Lara’s head, kneading and rubbing out knots she wasn’t even aware of. Her mind drifted here and there as she approached the beckoning shores of sleep. She remembered with a jolt where she was, and forced her eyes open. She hadn’t realized that some water had slid down the nape of her neck and dampened her thin cotton shirt. Mr. Oliver’s hands had also spidered down to her shoulders, and were exercising their skill from the top of Lara’s skull down to her shoulder blades. They went up and down like elevators for a time long enough to make Lara restless. Yet, Mr. Oliver took his time, circling and pinching her skin with his fingers and palms, keeping to a personal steady cadence. Through his repetitions, Lara’s shirt had gotten swept taught across her front and creased into a bunch along her spine between Mr. Oliver’s wiper hands. She was suddenly very aware of the damp cloth smeared to her skin, and his close proximity to her.
When he had finally decided that she’d had enough shampooing, he washed off the suds and led her to the barber’s chairs. She hoisted up into one and Mr. Oliver lobbed a cape fluidly around her. “Let’s see now,” he mused, taking her chin in his fingers and turning her face slightly to various angles, watching her face keenly in the mirror. He started combing her glistening hair, and got to work. Bundles of her hair were swept this way and that, pinned up here and there, all in between quick successions of blurry, silvery snips of the old man’s scissors.
Mr. Oliver, always gentle, directed Lara’s head to positions he required. A couple of times, she had the back of her crown leaning up against his soft, round belly as he lifted her bangs up and sheared them above her head. Slowly, he worked his way around her, adding shape and layers to her previously lifeless head. He came around to her right and cupped her head towards his belly again. This time, her forehead was placed where she thought his belly button might be. As he raked his fingers through her hair, and plucked and pulled at strands, Lara’s head bounced helplessly against his gut. Mr. Oliver’s belt buckle filled her focus of vision, just a few inches below her nose. Mr. Oliver’s hand cupped the base of her head where her hairline yielded to the pale, soft skin of her nape. He held his hand there, and to Lara’s sudden horror, he seemed to gently apply pressure. She could feel the cool metal of his belt buckle on her face, as she was slowly pushed closer and closer to the dark of his trousers below his belt. As soon as Lara stiffened in shock and fear, Mr. Oliver let go and resumed his position behind her back.
He again propped her head back into the cushion of his belly, and combed a curtain of hair in front of her face so as to shield her sight. He continued combing her hair, down and over the sides of her face and shoulders. Lara sat statue, her heart having quickened tenfold in her chest. Mr. Oliver combed until the back of his hands brushed Lara’s budding breasts. Down he brushed, applying more and more pressure with each stroke. Lara dared not move nor make a sound. She felt her face burning red hot. Underneath the cape her legs were locked tight, thighs squeezing so hard together, one ankle over another; they were on the verge of almost cramping. On their last few strokes of the comb, Mr. Oliver’s hands even scraped her chests on their way back up, cupping for a few milliseconds that to Lara seemed eternal and seared into her unknowing mind. She struggled to control her breathing. Her pupils swiveled as far as they could go, trying to ascertain if anyone else had seen. Sadly, the others seemed wound up in there own affairs.
At the end of what seemed a lifetime, Mr. Oliver casually finished up with his usual beam and friendly voice. “You like it, sweetie?” he enquired. Lara glanced at her reflection without internalizing her new look, nodded curtly and made to get out of her chair. However, Mr. Oliver’s heavy hand pressed onto her left shoulder, sinking her small body further into her plush seat. “We could make you even prettier by styling your hair now. You want to come with me to the styling room, sweetie?” he probed, as friendly as a fox. Lara shook her head frantically and slid out of his grasp. She scurried to the payment counter, placed whatever change her mother had given her onto the shiny top, and walked out of the store like a zombie, tears of shame, disbelief and scandalized innocence clouding her vision. She stood beneath her apartment building for an entire hour before she could gather her wits again to head back up home, where she showered in scalding water for another hour straight, before falling into bed and into the sweet darkness of oblivion.