Author: David Margolin
“Home haircuts are great– think about how much money we’ve saved since Covid started,” Maggie said proudly.
“All we need to do is count the money in the cookie jar. You’ve dropped in 50 bucks each time, right?” asked Trent.
“No, only $35, I gave you the senior discount.”
“Smart alec, I just turned 35, not 65.”
“Just sit still, I don’t want to hurt you.”
There was more to the home haircuts than saving money. Trent’s naked upper body, Maggie’s low-cut bathrobe, and the closeness of their bodies were an erotic recipe. After haircuts Maggie often insisted on a close inspection of her handiwork in the privacy of their bedroom.
Maggie picked up the only dangerous tool involved in the process, a sharp scissors. For an instant Maggie held the scissors vertical to the back of Trent’s neck. Jethrow, their 20-pound impulsive, acrobatic, black cat, chose that instant to fling himself into Maggie’s right hand. The scissors were driven about half an inch into Trent’s neck, puncturing through his skin and subcutaneous tissue. Trent screamed in pain as his left hand reflexively covered the wound.
Maggie coaxed his hand away and examined the damage. She hoped that the blood would be oozing rather than gushing. Maggie, wide-eyed, couldn’t suppress a loud, “Ahhh!” Blood would have been messy, but what she saw was life-altering. There wasn’t any blood. There was a glowing green substance trickling down the back of Trent’s neck–viscous, mercurial, and pulsating.
“Do I need stitches?”
“Not exactly, more like a mechanic.”
“This is no time for your weird sense of humor.”
Trent put pressure on the wound with a nearby dish towel and went into the bathroom to survey the damage. Maggie followed close behind. They both stood facing the mirror, her body supporting him from behind.
Adrenaline propelled Trent past trepidation into action. He removed the towel. “What th–”
“Don’t freak out, I can explain,” Maggie said very softly and soothingly. She turned her left arm palm up and firmly pressed her thumb down in the middle of her forearm until something clicked. Then she slid the previously invisible rectangular panel down towards her fingers. Maggie watched Trent’s reaction closely as the glowing green circuit board came into view.
They made eye contact in the mirror. Trent spoke first, “For better or for worse.”
“Until death–or malfunction–do us part,” Maggie chimed in.
They kissed, and Trent said, “Let’s finish the haircut, but maybe just take a little bit off the sides this time.”