We, the fine blond hair, had been doing just fine, thank you. You spat the little bastard out and we began doing our job. Mimicked your hair, in fact, missus. Thought you might like that, we did. Let me tell you that it wasn't the most pleasant head we've had the pleasure to grace, either. Your first boy, William, had a much more shapely head. Our darker cousins over there on that one's pate tell us that things are working out bloody well fine for 'em, they do.

Now you've towed this new one to the so-called Barber Shop. You tell him that he's just going to sit in the waiting chairs and watch the old men get their hair cut, don't you? Lying cow. Look at the wee one, sitting there in the waiting chair, playing with his little change-a-ma-thingie. How innocent and happy he is. Want to know what makes him secure? Want to know, you heartless bitch? It's us: The fine downy hairs he feels on the back of his neck and falling into his curious eyes, protecting him from this heartless world. We grew in perfectly, just as the Lord God Almighty intended. The symmetry of our curve around his wee head can never be matched again. What you're thinking of doing to him is akin to tossing your used napkin on the Virgin Mary herself.

Now the greasy barber is done with the latest scalping of another balding clientèle and he's motioning to you, mommy dearest. There is still time to exit this slaughter house and return home, as if the idea had ever crossed your feeble brow. No, you reach for my host and haul his little helpless ass up into that patched leather chair, so old that there are still cigarette ashtrays on either arm rest. Could there be a larger hint that you are out of date here? To add insult to injury, the hairy-nosed artisan with the breath of death throws a wooden plank on the arms where my little friend is supposed to sit quietly while you watch this massacre.

Did you think we would go quietly? Not so, Madame. The overweight monster throws the filthy cape around his tiny neck. We dig into his scalp trying to save both ourselves and his vestal dignity. He hears the clippers turn on. They sound like a threshing machine to him and he is the wheat. First his face turns blood red and then the screams begin. You do your little mommy act and try to distract him with your silly coo-coo banter. How we both hate you for all the lies you are telling now and the ones you'll tell for the rest of his helpless life.

The first swipe is made as the diseased comb lifts us up and the maniacal blades gnaw at us. And there our first reflections of the perfect image of God himself fall softly off the tiny shoulders on their way to that roach-infested floor of this tonsorial gas chamber.

It's a dire day for us, madame. But your life will never be the same again, either. You may not sleep so easily at night knowing that we will be whispering in his ear while you're in the next room and the knives are on the counter.

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