Capillus

I smell it before I see it struggling through the door. Acres of matted fur tarred with detritus, sedimentary layers of trinkets caught in its mane. An inventory of pigeons half-ossified, wings jerking to attention, fag butts, thigh bones, street preachers, grey chewing gum spattered throughout. There is no room to manoeuvre, previously waiting customers ensnared in the warp and weave, shouts muffled by the undulating trawl.

It heaves itself into my chair. Offers a trembling paw filled with coppers that softly spill to the now carpeted floor. I fetch the machete, hack at the keratin that is sailor knotted in a rats-tail-rigour-mortis. Three hours pass before a lawn strimmer is required. 

Now we’re getting somewhere. What was a terrible chimera moves to fibrous-hydra, then yeti, fawn, to yes – a wizened gibbon as old as oak. Onwards. Follicles are ripped from their roots like ferrets plucked from rabbit holes. Beard – adeiu. Eyebrows – sayonara. Scalp – electric-chair-ready. By the end of the shearing, it measures twenty-five centimetres. Blinking, mute, nubile – a porcelain sprite. I keep my hand-mirror steady and turn the chair, producing a musical box ballerina. I place it in my pocket and turn the sign to CLOSED. 

In the attic I serve it warm milk and shave it three times a day. Its wriggling protests eventually subside, taking great delight in feathering a nest made out of odd socks and newspaper. Downstairs collects dust. I lovingly pore over its unblemished terrain, scythe in hand, goosebumps rippling. My marble mausoleum. Every hair is nicked before it sprouts like wildflowers pushing through concrete.