So this is my second attempt at writing this post. My first attempt involved several paragraphs describing the art of cutting hair. I read it back and found self half-asleep with boredom. No one wants to read something so monotonous. Was working up to something, see, and thought the whole hair-cutting process would set the stage.
Ah, no. There is nothing exciting about cutting hair. Unless, of course, you’ve stayed true to the same style for several years, finally biting the bullet and booking an appointment at the hair dressers for a long overdue makeover. Which would be exciting, yes. You imagine the reactions of your friends when they saw you for the first time. You might even start wearing a little more makeup to accentuate the look. But the process itself wouldn’t be exciting. Granted, those few minutes having your head massaged while conditioner was applied would be glorious, but the cutting of what was, essentially, a dead organism would not give you thrills.
Certainly wouldn’t be something worth writing about.
Yes, yes, there is a point to all of this. What am concerned with is the end result, but suppose I should give you some background first.
Landlord, you may remember, has the whole hobo look going. Beard. Long hair. A bit disastrous. Turns out, Parkinson’s is to blame. Part depression, part nipping himself when trying to use clippers due to tremor. Decided to never try again.
Would not have brought it up. Landlord is own person. Can do what he wishes with his own appearance. But. Were sitting down eating lunch. Landlord scratching away at the scab on his head. Watched as he took thumb and forefinger to pick out a bit of his scab. That was it for me.
Right then. Time to cut his hair.
Landlord was compliant. Guess he didn’t really like it long. Set up in utility room.
Cut hair. Quite short with the clippers. Trimmed beard to same extent. Shaved beard. Cripes if that was a process. Close contact. Close enough to feel breath. To see vein throbbing in his neck. Enough said.
Result was a fresh-faced Landlord. Young. Clear skin. Handsome. Eyes seemed bluer. Lips fuller. Took me back to that day many years ago on the banks of the Thames.
Heart fluttered a little. Stomach churned. Wiped remnants of shaving foam from his jaw.
And then, without warning, he placed his hands on my knees. Was sitting across from him, see. His hands were shaking at first, and then firm. And with one slow, fluid movement he moved his hands up along my thighs. Halfway up and then back to my knees.
Way too much. Way too much.
Stood up so quickly the chair fell back onto the floor. Let out an ‘oh’ as it collapsed, but did not fault my movement.
Was out the door in about two seconds, I think. Big, deep breaths. Cripes, was difficult. The look of him. Handsome strong jaw and those lips. Those lips I remember. And eyes which seem to gleam.
Which, of course, brings up feelings I don’t want to fill my head. Because desiring someone for sex is one thing. We have those needs as humans. But when something twangs. When a heart string is plucked, it is desperately confusing. Being drawn into someone is dangerous. Last time it happened, I ended up in cult which ruined my life.
Cannot love again. Will not.
But Landlord – he’s a handsome man again. A new man. No longer looks like he’s given up on life.