The Procedure
Wednesday evening. Sterile walls, white lights, a crowd of specialists. Hesitation.
“Are you sure you want this procedure?” a specialist asks me.
“Yes.”
“It’s a big decision.”
“Not really.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to go for something… less serious? Here, take a look at this.”
“No, thank you. My decision is final.”
They guide me to the chair. Cloth draped around me, to protect the rest of me from the procedure.
A whispered argument in the back. Who will perform the procedure on me? Who can handle it? Should they film it so that the rest can see how it is done?
Nervous laughter. Stares that are meant to be subtle.
Someone pipes up: “Will your mother recognize you when this is over?”
I grin.
A specialist volunteers at last. Walks up, brandishing the instruments of her craft. Just before she begins, she asks, one last time: “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The procedure takes much longer than I though it would. The specialist is careful, slow, glancing at my face often as though I might change my mind midway.
She does try to make me change my mind herself, almost at the end: “We can still change this to -“
“No.”
Her colleague flutters about, recording it on video for future reference.
Partway through, the specialist working on me seems to understand. “Is this condition of yours the reason you wanted this done?”
I shrug.
Just like that, it is over. They hesitate longer than usual to give me the mirror, so I can see what I look like now.
When I eventually get to a mirror, I am not disappointed myself, but everyone else looks caught between nervous amusement and dismay. It can’t be helped. The misgivings of specialist hairstylists are, for once, not my problem, because my hair is wonderfully short again. This hair salon lives up to its reputation.
“Where do I pay?” I ask.