Love Your Red Hair

Everyone has style, regardless of how they physically present themselves. Even if they claim to be in plain clothes or in clothes seemingly devoid of style, they still have moxie. May it be in one’s music, artwork, picture, or story, everyone bears something that distinguishes them from everyone else. We are all unique in some way, even though we are all human.

I personally have moxie which I proudly exhibit in the various hairstyles I have sported through all these years. As a hairstylist, I get to freely express myself through my hair. My hair is my canvas, my blank slate upon which I work my magic. I have sported a Mohawk, dreadlocks, cornrows, and so much more, all of which have earned quite the amount of attention from curious onlookers out on the streets. I do not mind the attention since this is what I do for a living after all. My own expressive tresses have earned me quite the line of loyal clientele who all call me for personal house appointments, thus further establishing my hairstyling career while still giving me just the right amount of free time.

“Hey there, Hayley,” she greets me as she closes the door behind us, welcoming me into her home’s living room.

“Micah, it’s been a while,” I greet back as I set my kit down. “It’s nice seeing you again after such a long time.”

One of my faithful customers is a young local artist named Micah. I have taken care of her hair styling and maintenance needs since she could walk and talk, so I have seen her grow throughout our bi-monthly appointments. Watching her grow makes me feel like her parent as well. I have seen her grow to be quieter until she hardly utters a word anymore either out of politeness or out of introversion. She hardly ever calls for an appointment herself, so hearing from her has been quite the surprise. Since she is my client, I can’t say no.

“Sorry for the sudden call,” Micah apologizes.

“It’s no problem. This is my job, after all,” I smile. “Where do I set up?”

She leads me over to a swivel-type high chair set up by a panel of windows so that the area is naturally lit. I quickly recognize the spot, for it has always been the spot where we would conduct our hair appointments. I quickly place my equipment down on the coffee table beside the chair as she takes her place in the high chair. Once seated comfortably, I place a bib around her and fasten it around her neck. She does not flinch as usual, but she has said more now than she has before which honestly weirds me out.

“I was surprised when I got your call,” I remark, placing my scissors and combs into my apron. “You’re not often in need of a makeover.”

“I felt like it,” Micah acknowledges.

“Why, but your hair’s already so pretty,” I comment. “Even if you’ve missed one appointment, your hair would still be growing beautifully.”

I hardly kid. I recall Micah for her lavishly lustrous red hair. The redness of her hair borders more on the darker end of the natural redhead spectrum, so it almost looks a bit unreal. Against her pale skin and grey eyes, she looks almost like a cartoon character. I have both loved and dreaded our appointments because it would mean cutting into that beautifully well-maintained mane. While styling it is a joy, it always hurts me to change it every now and then. She never really changes every hairstyle that I have styled her hair in. I love her red hair, and I love how I have become the one she has entrusted her crimson mane with.

“It felt off in some places,” Micah mentions.

“Where exactly?” I ask as I take my scissors and my comb from my apron. I glance over at the coffee table, finding one of my pair of scissors missing.

By then, it is too late.

I feel a sharp pain pierce my side, the agony so sudden yet excruciatingly unbearable. I look down to find a hole torn through my shirt, the area around it quickly turning red. I poke around the hole and find blood flowing out of the wound underneath it, its thick viscosity a welcome surprise to someone like me who has never held this much blood before. I study the blood all over my fingers curiously, for the only pain I have ever felt has been the prick of a lancet for blood tests. This is new, but I know I should not fancy too long with this new sensation.

I look up at Micah still seated comfortably in the high chair, facing away from me. Without a mirror anywhere near us, I could not immediately see her expression. Afraid of the face that she may have put on, I glance down and find blood dripping from under her bib. I kneel down only to find my missing scissors now bloodied in her hands. At least I know now where my scissors have gone.

“Right there,” she answers.

Micah slowly turns the chair around to reveal a shockingly angelic smile, a look in sharp contrast to her bloody hands. Everything else about her is clean, but I know that her hidden agenda is nowhere near godliness. She is no less horrifying than every child featured in horror films about children. I have never had reason to fear her before until now. She may have grown quieter over the years, so anything could run rampant in her mind.

She slowly stands from the seat, taking the bib off while I slowly inch away from her. I can feel my life force drain away as she approaches me, the scissors pointed outwards so that I could see the stained edge. I crawl on the floor away from her, slipping every now and then on the growing crimson pool while my vision slowly starts to fade.

“Why, why are you doing this?” I quake.

“I need more medium,” Micah replies. “Don’t worry, my parents aren’t home.”

“I don’t understand,” I tremble.

“You know I’m a painter, but what you don’t know is that I make my own paints,” she explains. “Lately, I’ve been working on my rendition of the Biblical Rapture, and I’ve run out of sources. Besides, the viscosity of human blood makes for quite the challenge. Just thinking about it excites me.”

“Why this?” I stammer. “Why me?”

“I want to be as true to the subject of the Biblical scene,” Micah grins, her hand poised high above me with the scissors directed at me. “It is God’s collection of souls, isn’t it? I am God, after all. Don't worry, you're not the only soul going straight into my painting.”