Snip, Snip, Snip, and the Blood Fell to the Floor

Dear Followers & Subscribers

I am transitioning away from my beloved beauty industry into writing. You may have noticed the change in recent posts, adding poetry and the short salon murder story on the next page. I hope you will continue to support me in my efforts. If it resonates, shoot me an email at DerdreAHaggerty@gmail.com.

Snip, Snip, Snip, and the Blood Fell to the Floor: A Short Story

No one noticed her lifeless body until Anna saw the blood streaming down the cape and screamed. The poor innocent girl thought I cut my finger again and ran to fetch a Band-Aid from the first aid kit under the reception desk of Nico’s storefront, as she did every time I snipped my skin. However, it wasn’t my blood that dripped onto the salon floor. It oozed from the shears, which penetrated deep within the ear of that cackling bitch, hushing her permanently. And quick too! I shocked myself with the ease and swiftness it took for the scissors to infiltrate her eardrum. I fantasized as I cut her hair about muting her forever. But I didn’t think my murderous rage would escalate into reality.

The eerie sensation was similar to cutting the cartilage through a slice of chicken. And she didn’t scream; well, actually she couldn’t. My left hand wrapped the cape around her throat as the weapon performed its miracle and death was imminent. The coroner would later determine her demise was due to asphyxiation, but I took pride in the skill it took to stab the one area she irritated the most in me. Her eyes rolled sideways toward me, then back in her head. I gaped at the drool, which seeped from the side of her mouth that only seconds earlier berated me into a First Degree Felon.

“Blah, blah, blah, blah, loser, blah, blah, blah, what are you stupid, blah, blah, blah, my daughter is your age and she is a doctor, your parents must be so proud, blah, blah, blah!” Snip, Snip, Snip, then silence, and Barbara breathed her last gulp of oxygen and aerosol hairspray.

Someone once asked if the sound “snip, snip, snip” from the scissors grated on my auricular nerves. Of course, my answer was no, there is something extremely gratifying about a salon: the sound of chattering clients, the shears as they slice the hair, the fruity aroma of hair color and hairspray as it fills the air, and the smiles of satisfied clients.

This is not the career path for all. Salon life is more of a vocation, if you don’t love it, leave it. True beauty professionals are immersed in the sensory perception of designing coifs; yet, the scissors and the sound of the client’s voice proved to be this hairstylist’s downfall and the death of the obnoxious guest. It wasn’t the snip, snip, snip that drove me mad, it was the nasal whine that etched into my brain like nails on a chalkboard, and the constant complaints that surfaced from her pursed narrow lips.

They say people are glum in rainy weather or rambunctious when the moon is full, however, this was a glorious spring day at the beginning of the lunar cycle. The drive to the North Shore of Long Island was picturesque, for lack of a better word. Cherry blossoms were in bloom, hydrangeas blossomed and tulips lined the manicured lawns of the well-to-do.

There is a strange misconception that Long Island’s inhabitants are wealthy plastic, people enjoying glorious mansions. This is not the case as neighborhoods are an eclectic blend of upper-class, middle to lower-class families, and yes, poor.

The salon was located in Manhasset, and the clientele was mostly the former, however, the servants, excuse me, the hairstylists and assistants belonged somewhere in the middle and below, except for the owner whose own expansive home was built from the sweat and tears of his employees.

A Friday morning schedule was generally full of elderly women and their weekly blowouts/sets. We all had our adorable regulars and have acclimated to their needs, wants, and limitless instruction on the amount of teasing, how much hairspray, and what size curling iron will get the job done. For some, this could be their only outing of the week and we cherished our time with them, no matter how ingratiating it could be at times for a mere $2 tip.

I arrived at 8:50, thankfully ten minutes early. I wouldn’t want a sneer from Nico, as the rest of the staff diligently unpacked their tools for the day. The assistants started the coffee and the regulars were in the waiting area, tapping their toes in anticipation of the weekly scrub. Fortunately, Helene turned on the radio and the morning on-air prank drowned out the impatient huffs.

One by one, satisfied blowouts left the salon in droves and lunchtime was upon us. Now, unless you are inundated with regulars every day, Nico wouldn’t allow time to be allotted to eat. If you were at the low end of the totem pole, you had to scoff food down between guests. I had five minutes until my 12:30 client, as my noon appointment was a quick and easy buzz cut. With no time to scour the deli, I devoured a banana from home and a cup of Joe. I walked to the rear of the salon and chatted with the assistants as I poured my well-needed java and grabbed the fruit from my bag that hung in the coat room. The top snapped easily and as one peel slid down the shaft, Helene, the receptionist, called from the front that my 12:30 had arrived.

“Thank you,” I replied and motioned with my hand for Barbara, a new, recommended client to follow me to the shampoo area.

I took a bite of the fruit and put the banana on a napkin, waiting for Barbara. Her saunter was slow and deliberate while she took in her surroundings as if each detail would later be recalled for a police sketch artist, little did she know. Her small stature and plump frame were that of a woman who takes immense pleasure in the mere aroma of food and the crackle of a snack cake wrapper. For the time it took her to meander to the sink, I could have watched my banana ripen, eaten it, floss, and be back in time to greet Babs by the washbowl.

“Good morning, I’m Deirdre. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I believe Hanna recommended me?”

“It’s the afternoooooooon…,” she reprimands, emphasizing noon with whiny gravel.

“Yes, it is. The morning ran away from me,” I chuckle “What are we doing for you today?”

“We aren’t doing anything. YOU are cutting my hair. For some reason, Hannah says you are amazing, but we will see.”

Her behavior makes it difficult to keep a smile on my lips. Something about the smugness in this pug’s face rubbed me the wrong way. But I relented. “Are you keeping the same style or would you like to change it?”

“If I didn’t want to change it, brainiac, I would have stayed with my other hairstylist. Do you even know how to cut hair? Hanna said you are great but you don’t know what I want! Why don’t you surprise me blondie, unless you can’t muster enough creativity in your tiny mind to figure out a haircut that will work for me! I know hairstylists aren’t educated, but really!”

I took a deep breath, not needing another assault charge added to my record. The last was cleared and this job was hard enough to find. My fake smile grew as I examined her clothes. She wore a dark blue cashmere tunic over tight, black leggings and carried a Luis Viton bag. The purse could have been a knock-off, but chances are she had money, it was the neighborhood and her persona bellowed, “I am better than you.” The tunic didn’t cover her hips and the leggings accentuated every roll from her pelvis to her knees. She may have been wealthy, but she lacked fashion sense or her home was decorated with carnival mirrors throughout. I began to feel bad for the evil little munchkin and called over Kim, my favorite assistant to shampoo her hair.

“Kim will wash you, and then I will meet you in my chair. I will make you look even more fabulous than you already do.”

“You better,” she snapped, and I walked away.

Kim smirked at me as I shoved the banana down my throat, in a very inappropriate way. She laughed out loud as she leaned Barbara back, prompting more venom.

“What’s so funny, do you always laugh at the clients?”  Kim apologized. The oompa-loompa demanded a hard scalp scrub, two shampoos, and no conditioner. “ I am not paying extra for conditioner.” She wouldn’t have had to, but the customer is always right. I motioned for Kim to forgo the additional hair care. Kim escorted the guest to my chair and brought her a cup of coffee, the last she’d drink on this planet.

Author Credits

Deirdre Haggerty is the author of today’s short story and  The Future Professional’s Guide to Cosmetology. It will answer your questions regarding a beauty career with expert advice from an industry professional. If you have a question regarding cosmetology or beauty careers, please email me at asktheprostylist@gmail.com.  Until then, happy styling!

©Deirdre Haggerty 2024, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this article may be reproduced without prior written permission and consent from the author.