A Short Sketch

 It’s been over six weeks since my last haircut so I pop into my hairdresser’s to make an appointment.

“I can do ye Wednesday next at half ten,” she tells me.

“Yes, that will be fine,” I reply.

“Or I can do ye on Thursday at eleven,” she offers.

“The Wednesday is grand.”

“And I have Friday at two, though there will be some women here for a touchup before Moira’s wedding at six. Are ye going?”

“No, I don’t know Moira. Wednesday will be lovely. Thanks.”

“I’ll see ye on Wednesday, so.”

“Wednesday it is,” I say and begin to back out of the shop.

“Unless ye’d prefer Tuesday? I could do that.”

I close the door and run down the street.

On Wednesday I settle into the chair as she begins to cut and comb and blow-dry.

“Will I leave it a bit longer on top than last time?” she asks as she snips away.

“Yes, I’d like it a bit longer,” I say. “I don’t want to wait six weeks between haircuts.”

She snips. And snips.

Finally, she holds up a hand mirror so I can see the finished product from all angles.

“How does that look to ye?” she asks.

“Yes. Grand. Perfect,” I say.

“Will I just take a bit more off here?”

“I think it’s just the right leng…”

Snip. Snip. Snip.

“What do ye think?”

“Perf…”

Snip. Snip. Snip.

“I think I’ve got it now,” she says, stepping back to survey her work.

“Yes, that’s just the way I like it.”

She steps back in.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Snippity. Snip.

Finally, I’m freed from the chair.

I give one last look in the mirror.

I think I can easily make it eight weeks before I have to return.