by Kristine Laco

I headed to my illegal occupation, expecting it to be a normal Tuesday.

I am a consensual participant in one of the oldest professions and forced to hide my talents behind heavy drapery and secrecy. If asked at dinner, I always reply that I am a freelance artist and am rarely asked follow-up questions.

Women like me have been dodging the law for centuries, putting men at ease to develop a loyal clientele. I don’t make mistakes. I vet my clients, treat them well, and they tip me in return.

I entered the parlor expecting the usual gang of miscreants. Men hide from their wives and lives behind magazines in our waiting room. Cosmopolitan and National Geographic back copies browsed and dogeared, rolled in nervous hands, sticky and stained, scatter on tables. When I entered, the covers dropped, and the eyes followed.

The waiting area smelled like sweat and peppermint gum. Jaws masticating stress. Knees bouncing, nervous legs jumping off the hard chairs. When I ventured further into the room, the nerves calmed.

I’ve walked this room many times. The men eye me like chattel and I let them. The more they watch my movements, the more relaxed they become. A relaxed client is generous.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I ooze.

“Good morning, Miss Jay,” they say together. My loyal flock.

I didn’t recognize one man. “Good morning, Ma’am,” he added as an afterthought. My brow raised. He looked at me over the top of his glasses. His eyes were the color of the sea and I held his gaze.

“You’re new here.” I approached him and stayed standing, so he had to tilt his head to look me in the eye.

“Yeah. Judge Lionel suggested you. I’m, uh, John,” he said in a voice so high it squeaked. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.

“Any friend of Judge Lionel is a friend of Miss Jay.” I assured him with a wink then combed my nails through his matted hair. I shook my head then laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke to the group.

“I’ll get the girls ready and send them out for the picking. You hold tight. Julie can get you a coffee if you like.”

I gave the new shoulder a squeeze and strolled to the desk where Julie sat behind an elevated countertop. I leaned over to ask Julie if she vetted the new John as a Judge Lionel referral. She nodded and handed me my room key after I thanked her for her diligence. 

In my room, I lit a vanilla candle, turned on the DVD player, closed the blinds, and prepared for my walk. Edward Scissorhands sprang to life on the screen. Any job should have an element of play. Besides, the irony made many of my clients laugh and relax.

I knocked on doors as I walked and called out, “It’s show time, ladies.” My stride back to reception was slow and deliberate.

The men dropped magazines to watch our tableau. I choreographed our routine to highlight the staff’s skills. “It Takes Two” was our anthem from the musical Hairspray, and we moved in fluid lines to Zac Efron’s baritone.

I stood aside and watched the girls showcase their skills with imaginary clients in the air. My scissoring techniques were legendary for men with referrals, so I let the others shine.

The new John selected me with a point, and I instructed him to follow to my personal salon. I screened him for lice before accepting his cash up front.

The diffusor I used to create ambient noise and a relaxing vibe was whirring lavender droplets in the corner. Hot towels were steaming in the towel warmer with a dash of eucalyptus.

John looked like he needed the comfort of small talk.

“Are you married?” I asked. His eyes darting around like a cat following a laser pointer.

He nodded and told me he and his wife had been married twenty years that spring. He twirled the wedding band as he talked.

I helped him with his suit jacket and watched as he looked around for something. His wife, a camera, any risks to his personal safety? My sharpened scissors of no threat.

His forceful exhale gave me the encouragement I needed to continue.

“I promise you’ll be happy you came. Your wife will too. Honestly, it’s less work for her.”

With that, he smiled in recognition, and his shoulders dropped.

“Yeah. She really hates to do this,” he managed with a smile.

I always start with protection. He sat, and I talked into the mirror while I draped him in a waterproof cape and put both my hands on his shoulders to secure the connection. Scissor-work required trust, and I found physical contact secured that faster than talk or referrals. I led him to the back. While he settled, I ran the water until it was body temperature, testing it on the insides of my wrists. He laid there with his eyes closed and vulnerable. I asked for consent to proceed.

“Oh, yeah. Please,” he assured me.

I offered a massage first, and I watched his eyes roll to the back of his head as my long fingernails scratched and kneaded his scalp.

Rinse, lather, massage. He groaned as I finished with a cream rinse.

After toweling him dry, I sat him in a chair facing the mirror and went to work. I pumped him up to my level, combed, cut, and I gave him a blowy.

I was almost finished with him when a bang-bang-bang interrupted my work.

“You’re under arrest!” Three armed officers entered my salon, guns pointed at my chest.

“Drop your weapon!” An officer motioned to my scissors. I returned my shears to the Barbicide, then held my hands high.

That’s when John flashed his badge and mouthed the word sorry.

“Figures,” I protested. “You got what you came for, then you called me in!”

John may have thought he was saving me from debauchery. But he wasn’t afraid to use me first. And he certainly never asked me if I was willing to be his scissor-worker.

“Sorry, Sweetpea.” John grabbed my hands behind my back and secured them with force. He held my elbow for my perp walk through the front doors to an awaiting crowd.

Women were on the sidewalk, crying and shouting obscenities at me and my colleagues.

Whore! Call-Girl! Criminal!

Leave our men alone!

Haircut now? What will you do next?

You do not have permission to touch my husband!

The last one that made me laugh. These women’s husbands came to me looking unkempt in their sad cuts done with kitchen shears. At the parlor, we provided a consensual service with the right tools and training. We guaranteed clean, sterilized equipment and discretion.

We also ensured our clients never received a business-at-the-front, party-at-the-back cut. We had higher standards and wanted women to be proud of their men, not embarrassed by them.

I was called by many names since I started in the business of styling men’s hair two decades ago, but a criminal wasn’t one of them.

I shouted, “It’s a job!”

John said, “Be quiet if you know what’s good for you.”

We approached a cruiser and John laid one hand on my head as he opened the back door.

“Hey, watch the hair,” I demanded. “This doesn’t just happen, you know.”