What the Scissors Saw

Belinda often wished her clients knew what she did. Years of cutting, dying, perming, and washing their hair allowed her to see each person in ways they may not have even let their closest friends see them.

For some reason, when people sat down in a salon chair, they perceived it as a safe space. Whatever mask they hid their true expressions behind dropped as their hair trimmings dropped to the floor. Introverts who never gossiped told Belinda about the worst person they worked with or the family member who was causing drama. Extroverts who always talked, would talk here in a way that wasn’t to impress or craft an image -- their tiredness or sadness would manifest as water washed the shampoo from their hair, falling like the tears they needed to shed.

Belinda would spin them around when she had finished. The customer would giggle, smile, or sometimes even gasp at the transformation. Sure, a choice few were not happy, but these tended to be the sort of people who were never happy.

Unfortunately for Belinda, for all the empathy and care she had for her clients, she could never see her own magic. She could not fathom that not every hair appointment, at every salon, was as magical or cleansing as the ones she offered.

I, however, knew. When Belinda gripped the holes at the top of my blades, it was like an artist holding a paintbrush. Alternating gentle strokes with attacking chops, she was like an artist who can see the whole from the first line. When she used me, I became so much more than a simple pair of scissors. An extension of her graceful movements, I was a well loved tool to help her find the best shape to compliment each client’s face. And while that might sound like a science, or easy objective for any trained professional following the current fashion trends, Belinda cared not only about the shape of her client’s faces, but their hearts as well. What was this haircut for? A regular trim for an organized lifestyle? Or a vacation where one might be proposed to? Seeing a friend after many years? Or, the confident armor needed to get a promotion at work?

While many stylists might agree that the customer is always right, and give that new, high maintenance, popular cut to a mom of four in her early thirties, Belinda was known for telling customers if their request wasn’t what they needed. Sometimes they would stand their ground, and she would relent. They were paying after all. Other times, the smart ones, would defer to her expertise and leave looking better than their original idea would have left them.

I was there for all of it, holding up my end of the bargain. A good pair of professional scissors could last years, and Belinda cared for me in the same way she cared for her clients and those she loved. She handled me gently, placing me in a beautiful glass container with Barbicide in between cuts. There was no minimalistic, right out of the box bedroom for me. Oh no, my jar was bedazzled. If she ever dropped me, she would gently apologize, as though I could hear her, which is, perhaps, maybe why I could.

Pairs of scissors of varying size and shape can be found in desks and junk drawers throughout the world. Blunt and brightly colored in a kindergartner’s hands, or sharply shearing fat from a cut of meat by a chef. Most were tossed aside and barely thought of, but some craftspeople, like Belinda, knew that not every pair of scissors was the same. Like the mother who insisted no one touch her fabric shears that were lovingly used to cut the cloth for costumes and holiday dresses, Belinda’s hair shears were not to be used on anything but, well, hair. She knew that I was an extension of herself, like a wizard’s magic wand.

Belinda’s clients might have left the salon after experiencing a catharsis and a fresh cut, but though they felt lighter in both ways, very few acknowledged the energy and skill that she had poured into them. Her clients were there between fifteen minutes and two hours, but Belinda and I were touching for most of the day. I felt the sweat from her palms, the hesitation when she needed to correct an errant clip, and the way people’s feelings shot up into her nervous system.

After everyone would leave for the night, sometimes she would sit in her chair. Her feet sore, her hands red from gripping me and dealing with water, chemicals, and gloves for 10 hours, and she would breathe deeply. She needed someone to see her worth, she wanted to know that all this talent was leading somewhere. She wanted to be in her own salon, where she could control the energy through the lighting, the clientele, and the decor. She wanted more than to be renting a chair and paying a percentage of her profits to the owner, a short, older man who had opened the salon when his wife, now retired, was the first stylist. He was no longer in need of services from scissors like me, and condescendingly called his employees his “girls”.

As day in and day out, the energy flowed between Belinda and her clients, with me as a conduit, I experienced what Belinda knew.

She knew that Mark, who insisted on paying her more at the women’s salon, continued to get his simple men’s cut from her instead of a barber because he came in with his sister once and fell in love with the salon’s receptionist. He was sweet and shy, and came faithfully for his cut every six weeks, smiling and bashfully complimenting the young woman who answered the phones, handled bookings, and doubled as cleaning staff because this was a small, suburban shop. But he could never work up the courage to ask her out until one day Belinda went off script and gave him a new and stylish cut and whispered to him as she showed him in the mirror, “this would be a good day to make your move.”

She knew Mrs. Carlisle’s hands had started shaking and her sister or husband drove her to her biweekly appointments. Belinda knew it wasn’t her place to ask, but when she washed the older woman’s hair, and helped her back to the chair for her trim, Belinda tried to send all the healing energy and prayers she could through her hands. Mrs. Carlisle had been one of her first clients, and she couldn’t imagine her monthly schedule without the kind woman who bragged about her grandchildren. She had stopped discussing her knitting club.

She knew that Emily was a fabulous teacher. She loved her students, and could talk through an entire highlight session about teaching. Belinda listened to Emily cry and consider quitting every spring as administration and parents wore her spirit down, and listened to her bubble on about the newest project she would be trying this year as she came to get a fresh hairstyle every August. Emily didn’t know that Belinda charged all the teachers and nurses that sat in her chair ten percent less than anyone else.

She knew that Odessa was not only her worst tipper, but also a terrible person. Belinda wasn’t sure why the woman kept coming to her salon; she seemed dissatisfied as her constant state. Belinda always wanted her booked early, to get it over with, and occasionally daydreamed about messing her hair dye up on purpose, but of course she wouldn’t. The woman could probably afford a much more high end salon, but wanted to save money. All she did was complain about employees, and the direction of the country, and I would have probably been doing a service if I had slipped in Belinda’s hands, but alas, this is not my story and I have no bodily control. Not that it would matter, the woman chose an awful, outdated style on her own accord, but Belinda still did her best.

She knew Daniella was exhausted. With three under five children and a part-time online job with flexible hours, this was the one thing she allowed for herself. Sometimes she’d even drift off in the chair, but mostly she and Belinda would gab like school girls and for an hour Daniella would remember herself.

Why do so many people feel as though they can treat their hairdresser like a therapist? Perhaps it’s because anyone who is styling you sees the layer you want covered up. Requesting their services means voicing your insecurities. The hairdresser is looking at your hair, not your eyes. You're avoiding someone looking upon you in judgment, while also being truly seen. After a new style, and particularly a blowout for adult women, you leave feeling more powerful. Belinda, hidden away in an unassuming strip mall, was better at her job than most. She would tell you she was just doing her job, but I could feel her hollowing herself out to give them the confidence they needed for their lives. Her observant and caring nature left people feeling nurtured, and was why she had the highest return client rate in the salon -- though her color work was excellent and understated too.

Belinda loved styling Kathryn’s hair. When Kathryn had an appointment, it was usually a good sign that the day would be calm and successful. Kathryn always got the same style and color, and Belinda and I could probably do it with our eyes shut if I had any. She came in on Thursday evenings, the only weeknight her family did not have extracurricular activities, in her business suit, pumps, and the same plum lipstick color that she had been purchasing from CVS since she was twenty-three. She had an easy to maintain mid length layered look that was long enough for a bun when she needed to look more severe in the boardroom, yet could be softened with a curling wand for a date night. She was in her forties, married with two children, and middle management at a tech company. Belinda didn’t actually know much else about her because Kathryn was a guarded, organized creature of habit.

Until today.

Kathryn had just set her stylish handbag down and got in the chair with her usual calm. But as Belinda wrapped the drape around her shoulders, Kathryn let out a sigh and asked, “what if I tried bangs this time, or maybe some burgundy or purple streaks?”

Belinda pumped up the chair, looked at Kathryn in the mirror and responded, “What did he do?”

Because while she may not have known Kathryn that well, she knew that when a woman who normally had a plan came in wanting a drastic change, someone had hurt her. Women like Kathryn only cut their bangs if a man had done something stupid. Bangs were a bad idea for someone on a tight schedule.

Kathryn swallowed. I was still in my bed of blue Barbercide, wondering if when I chopped those front hairs if we’d reveal a doe-eyed Zoey Deschenal or if we'd have a Youtuber decides to cut their own hair-type situation.

“Not him, well, not at first…her.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume…”

“No, no, Sam, my husband, is a man, but the trouble started at work.”

“Cheating?”

“Of the corporate kind. I’m losing my job in a merger because of backstabbing, and Sam, well, he thinks I should stay at home now to better give my attention to him and the kids, but I, well, I love my job. It helps me better care for them to have something for me.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Like, with my hair? Yeah.”

“I think I can give you a needed change, but maybe, you know, without the bangs.”

Over the next two hours Belinda and I worked our magic. There were highlighting foils, a blunt edge bob, and a listening ear as Kathryn spilled all the drama from work and hatched her plan to open up her own consulting firm. The women laughed and cried, and when I was finally put into the pocket on Belinda’s smock, they were the last in the shop, building a friendship out of their client-hairdresser relationship. Belinda shared her dreams of opening her own salon, and Kathryn left having made up her mind about her future.

We continued to see Kathryn. Lily, the front desk clerk, and Mark, fell in love and got engaged, and Belinda gave them both haircuts for free the week of the wedding. Mrs. Carlisle no longer came in for her perm, but Belinda went to the funeral, and her daughters and many of her friends became clients because of the wonderful things they had heard about the care she gave Mrs. Carlisle. We had gone to Mrs. Carlisle’s home to give her her last cut and style, and Belinda had gently washed her hair in the kitchen sink and given her gratitude for being one of her first clients. Emily was promoted to assistant principal, armed with a new degree and the hope that she could help change things for other teachers, and Odessa, well, she and her husband retired and left for Florida, and it was one paycheck Belinda did not miss. Moms like Daniella came in, and their kids grew and Belinda helped them feel sexy for date night with their spouse, or their first date after divorce, and with my help we didn’t let split ends or bad decisions get in their way.

Then one night, as I was placed in my jar, Belinda whispered, you’re only going to last a few more sharpenings. Our tender moment was interrupted by the annoying boss coming in to tell them all he’d be selling the store, and that they’d need a new place to cut hair by the end of the month. Belinda asked how much he was selling the store for, but it was three times what she had saved up. She’d start looking around for an open chair tomorrow.

Kathryn was her first client the next morning. As I trimmed her ends, Belinda shared the news.

Kathryn responded, “Haven’t you always wanted to open your own salon?”

Belinda explained how she had, but did not have quite enough capital to purchase the shop, renovate, and get ready quickly enough. Besides, she was pretty sure the shop already had a buyer.

“You’re in luck then.”

“What do you mean?” Belinda asked as she shifted me to the side to use her first two fingers on each hand to make sure Kathryn’s face framing pieces were even.

Kathryn explained how her consulting firm was doing well. After marriage counseling and both spouses changing some of their habits, her husband, a commercial real estate agent, had struck out on his own as well. They had just purchased their first commercial property that would house their offices, and had several other spaces. While Belinda protested that the location and newness of the building were going to be too far out of her price range, even with a loan, Kathryn responded, “it’s a good thing you have your first investor then.”

As Belinda stood there in shock, Kathryn gently took me from Belinda’s hands and held me up.

“Some people might just see a plain pair of scissors that you can buy at any beauty shop when they look at these, but I see an artist’s tools. Belinda, you don’t just cut people’s hair, you nurture us. You bring out the best in your clients, in people like me. When we are at our lowest and need a change, you use these scissors to cut away the debris so we can truly see ourselves. You and I will work out the details of the lease with me as a landlord and investor, and you will tell every client what you are doing, and watch this community you’ve built take care of you.”

And this is how Belinda finally learned what all her clients knew, that the love she poured into her calling could be poured right back into her. They helped with their time, skills, and connections, and Belinda became the boss at a new high end spa and salon.

I don’t mind that I’m dull and worn, and will never cut a hair again. Instead, today Belinda hung me in a shadow box, where instead of Barbicide I’m surrounded by velvet and secured by pins, and I’ll continue to watch her work her magic, in the place she owns, where she truly sees everyone who steps through her door.