Last Saturday Night
Last Saturday Night
It was late last Saturday night and Karen and I had been sitting around drinking some of her parent’s beer and watching old movies, like “Black Belt Jones,” a forgotten classic if I’ve ever seen one. Then again, maybe it isn’t. But that doesn’t matter at any rate.
What does is as the end credits scrolled up the screen, Karen began fiddling with her hair, looking at the curly ends like they held the meaning of life or something. Before I get into this, let me describe Karen, okay? She’s just under five and a half feet tall, which I consider the perfect height, with a rather slender body. She keeps saying she needs to lose weight, but if she does she might disappear. At any rate. she’s got this great smile with cute dimples (a plus, I think) and really great brown eyes, she even has good eyebrows (believe me, if you think about it, perfect eyebrows can make a good face great). I’ve always thought her eyes were her best feature, but they’ve always been kinda hidden by her hair, which is really blonde and kinda curly, but maybe closer to wavy. The shortest she ever had it, just a few months ago, was so that it just brushed the tops of her shoulders. Before then, it had been all the way down to her waist. For some unknown reason, it was almost a scandal at school when she had cut it, people flipped out. Her boyfriend didn’t dump her, but after that they kinda grew apart and eventually split up. I’ve always thought she should wear her bangs short, but she hasn’t, or hadn’t, gone for it yet.
Now back to the story.
She sat there fiddling with her hair, letting it out of that scrunchy thing she always has it in and tossing it around. I could feel my pants getting tighter. As I rewound the film I asked her if something was wrong.
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“I need to get it trimmed,” she said. “Got so many split- ends.”
I tried to act uninterested, which, if you’ve ever seen me act, isn’t easy. “So get it trimmed,” I told her in my best as- matter-of-fact tone.
“If I had any money I could,” she replied. She seemed generally perplexed by this problem, to say the least. Finally, I decided to take a shot.
“I’ll cut it for ya,” I told her, waiting for her to scoff at me or something.
“I don’t want it cut, just trimmed.”
“Like there’s a difference,” I told her. “Just get some scissors and I’ll do it.”
Amazingly enough, for some reason I still can’t comprehend, she went out and got the scissors from her kitchen. When she came back in, she pulled out a bar stool and plopped down. “Get busy.” she told me.
By this time I was practically bursting out of my pants, and that’s the truth. I wonder if she could tell how nervous I was, but my hands were getting all sweaty and my mouth was all dry and stuff. Truly yucky indeed. So I wiped of my hands discreetly on my pants and took the scissors from her. After a drink of water I was able to ask her how she wanted it done.
She looked into the mirror behind her parent’s bar and played with her hair again. I guess I should let you know that it was a few inches past her shoulders by now. “Just trim it,” she said again. “Straight across the bottom.”
“Alrighty then,” I replied. Should of been easy enough, right? Hell no. I slipped the scissors into her hair just over an inch above her shoulder. She must have seen it out of the corner of her eye, because she started to say something.
“MUCH!” We both watched the four inch long clump of hair roll over her shoulder and down to the floor. “I said I just wanted a trim!!” she yelled, but it was more a yell of annoyance than actual anger.
“I thought this was a trim,” I replied, kinda lying.
“No, a trim is half an inch. This is a CUT!”
“Sorry, should I finish?” I asked.
“You have to now.” she mumbled. She began to pout as I cut the rest of her hair just as short, and, as if it were possible, it turned me on more. Even though she tried to hide it, I knew she was starting to like it a little shorter. As I finished up her new shorter do, I finally worked up the balls to ask, “Don’t you think you should have some bangs?”
“What?” she asked.
“You know,” I said, “To show off your eyes. you have pretty eyes, you should let people see them.”
“I don’t know,” she said as she thought about it.
“Well, I do,” I told her as I snatched a long lock of her hair. Snip. It came off right above her eyebrows.
“Well thanks for letting me think about it!” she told me.
“No problem,” I said as I pulled some more of her hair forward. I snipped it off level with the top of her eyes, and they curled up around her eyebrows. Big improvement if you ask me, but she wasn’t happy watching six inches of her hair fall to the ground, or actually, to her lap.
She then went into the bathroom to fiddle with it some more and flip it around, meanwhile I was scooping up the hair I had cut off and pitching it into the trash.
“God, you cut off so much!” she told me when she came out again. I barely can get a ponytail anymore.”
Then she complained about how long t would be until she could wear her hair back like she always did, at least a few months according to her.
“Why do you always wear it pulled back?” I asked her.
She replied that it made her look better. “Why don’t you just cut it short then?” You would think I suggested we go spit on a few crucifixes with the way she reacted.
“You just said you looked better with your hair pulled back, and having it short does the same thing.”
“Yeah, right, like the people at school wouldn’t flip out.”
“Who cares what they think,” I argued as I popped open another beer. “I think you’d be damn good looking with short hair,” I added.
“Guys like long hair,” she replied. She was trying to convince herself to keep it long, I could tell by the way she was looking at her hair, pulling it forward with her finger and looking closely.
“Not true,” I said. “Guys like girls who look good. that’s it. Sick, but the truth. If a girl looks better with short hair, we like it short. If she looks better with long, we like it long.”
“And you think I’d look better with it short?”
“I swear,” I swore. I tried to give her that winning smile I’ve been working on, but she assured me it needs more work.
She thought for a while, but all I could get was a, “We’ll see,” so I went home happy but not as euphoric as I could have. I’m still waiting and hoping, but I’ll let you all know if anything happens.