Edward is That You?

It is very likely that I have just received a haircut from Edward 'Scissorhands'. Do you remember the movie? Well, like my hair, a lot of it probably ended up on the cutting room floor. Edward 'Scissorhands' has a shop in Uddevalla, tucked at the end of the pedestrian walkway across from a grocery market. No doubt he's there so as not to draw too much attention to himself. His prices are better than anyone else in town - but for the work he does, on his 'victim', one has to wonder why.

I don't believe his scissors ever left my head and his fingers certainly didn't leave his hands for the entire 45 minutes I sat there. (I can only assume he had fingers, at the speed with which his scissors flew, it was hard to tell.)

Oh, I've made a big mistake, I thought when I sat down. He wrapped a plastic cape around me, even a paper collar - that was a good sign, but then he spritzed my hair. I don't trust hairdressers who don't wash my hair. A spritz was hardly enough to moisten my mop and a dry haircut should, in my book, be reserved only for the clipping of bangs or a fussy child. If I asked him to spritz again, would he feel I was mocking his trade?

It was too late, Edward's scissors were already at hand. If you recall in the movie you never actually sees the artists sheers touching the hair, just a whirl of arms and metal and the hairs seem to fall at the appropriate levels to produce masterpieces. Here, however, I was able to catch glints of metal racing about my head and occasionally, although perhaps only once or twice, a hand before them.

In all my previous haircuts, the hairdressers have combed my hair, pulled a portion of it through their fingers and clipped off the dangling ends. But not here. There was no comb; or else its speed escaped my peripheral vision. My head was bent down, pulled up, twisted sideways in an attempt perhaps to obscure my vision, all the while being attacked by Edwards' scissor-like hands that never seemed to actually touch me. He held his scissors perpendicular to my head and with small jabs, never deep enough to touch my scalp, cut my hair. I didn't want to imagine how sharp those scissors had to be to accomplish this. I was reminded a little of a vac-u trim. There were actually several moments when I wondered if I should breathe; but then quickly my head would be pulled down again and the vision of Edward in the mirror would disappear.

For almost an hour I endured the sound, so close to my ears, of my hair tearing as it came ever so briefly in contact with a razors edge. But during my brief glimpses in the mirror, I saw in those blades the work of a genius; hands undaunted by my ears or my...earrings...I should have removed my earrings! But his hands moved around them, hovering over my head like an orb absorbing the landscape of my scalp.

Finally the scissors stopped and I was brave enough to look. There in the mirror was the masterpiece of his cutlery. A finer haircut I have never had. I allowed the lavish expenditure of creams and mousses, withdrew into the scalp massage, basked in the heat of the dryer; all luxuries I have denied myself for too long, and which I so justly deserved after remaining manikin like for so long.

I left the shop of Edward Scissorhands and proudly walked through downtown Uddevalla. It was sunny, I should have worn my hat, but the world deserved to see art.