I've never liked getting my hair cut, so I tend to let it grow well into it's awkward phase, procrastinating the inescapable next session. I wince at the thought of confronting my reflection in the mirror for an extended period of time, locked in place, forced to evaluate the details of my face with it's imperfections, to acknowledge the changes that have marked the passage of time. Is that really what I look like? In these exposed moments, the combination of another's close proximity, too familiar touch, and precision work with sharpened tools paired with my state of immobility and frilly gown draping engender a peculiar situation of strange vulnerability and odd intimacy. It demands an unnatural trust obligatorily tempered by the charade of congenial small talk designed to mitigate it's intensity.

When I first started seeing my local barber, I felt a sense of relief. The outmoded, modest shop was located at the forgotten end of a quiet strip mall and there was no foot traffic or other employees. On entering, she offered a curt greeting before gesturing for me to have a seat and then proceeded to approach the task with efficiency, eschewing idle chatter in favor of concentrated focus. She had a professional but guarded and terse maternal demeanor and only spoke (the words pronounced with a rich Persian accent) when the job necessitated it, allowing me to peacefully indulge in my minor existentialist haircut crisis whilst she worked. It was the fastest trim I think I've ever had. Before I knew it, the floor was littered with small locks of hair and a mirror was being held behind me, awaiting my approval.

I tend towards routine and that first visit was years ago. The evolution of our sessions has since transitioned from a nearly silent event into one filled with conveyances of her stories and musings. I don't dislike it, the time required having added the missing element of sincerity. I don't always fully comprehend what she says since I have a terrible ear for accents, but it helps that the conversations are largely unidirectional. She talks and I listen and so, while she knows little of me, I am vaguely acquainted with some aspects of her life - her two birds which she moves inside or outside depending on the weather, her two sons and their career and relationship trajectories, and her particular care in avoiding illness.

On a relatively recent visit, I was surprised to be greeted by a sociable, charming man instead. The haircut was well done but performed at such a leisurely pace that I would occasionally feel that usual restlessness when my reflection caught me unaware. He was personable and humorous however and, despite myself, he largely succeeded in distracting me from the chore's absurdity.

When I felt we had established a strong enough rapport as to not appear rude, I finally asked, "Where is [my usual barber]? I've actually never seen anyone else here before."

He gave a noncommittal shrug and waved his hand, "She's been out sick, we don't really know what's going on but it must be pretty bad; we don't know when she's coming back."

My mind wandered on the drive back home. It meandered from a general concern about my barber's well-being, to the irony of her particular care in staving off malady, and finally to the inexorable, fickle mortality intrinsic to our existences.

A month or so later, I was again past due for a trim and experienced a sensation of reassurance on glimpsing my usual barber behind the counter. She had an unusual, energetic, spirited air and, soon after seating me, she asked with poorly veiled excitement, "Did I tell you what happened to me?"

She went on to tell me that it all began with a suspicious awareness of pressure which started on the right side of her neck below her ear that grew in intensity over a few days and was accompanied with an increasing frequency of headaches. She suspected allergies at first, of which she's quite sensitive to until the symptoms finally crossed the threshold from annoying to concerning. After an unfruitful visit to the doctor's office, her condition took a turn for the worst and she ended up in the hospital. She told me that there were days spent there that she has no memory of. For several days she experienced a sort of aphasia where she believed she was communicating coherently with her visiting family, but in actuality was only repeating the statement, "I am at the hospital." Apparently one or two of the more delicate bones in that area had fractured due to the internal pressure that had amassed.

"So, what was it?" I asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "They don't know, just some kind of infection," she replied with a dubious intonation.

With time and an aggressive drug routine she recovered and was released after a liberal observational period. They needed to make an incision just underneath her ear, I'm not sure of the reason, and if I understood correctly, she will need to continue taking a prescription for the remainder of her life as a preventative. She then lightheartedly complained about her newfound tinnitus which may or may not resolve itself.

"...But that's what they do, to the common people", she trailed off.

"I'm sorry, what's that?" I perked up.

"They do their experiments. I don't know why, maybe they want to control us? Make us into robots?"

At this moment I awaited with surety for the typical routine of my mind to scoff. That characteristically dominant, skeptical component which believes in a logical and rational world comprised of sensical rules and order was quiet however. A moment passed, and another, until finally a sheepish representative appeared with the internal equivalent of an apologetic shrug and silent expression which I knew to mean, "Well... who's to say?"

PS: Mods of PointlessStories, thank you for the flair. I had no idea this was a custom and I love it.