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  • Writer's pictureSandra McGraw

Just a Trim, Please

My brother and I were always getting into some kind of trouble together. We were just 15 months apart in age. Earl usually had the idea and I served as an accomplice. Often, our mischievousness somehow impacted our older sister, Sharon. She referred to us as the "little kids" and we often fell under her authority. Earl and I called her Queen Ann because of her attitude of superiority.

On this particular afternoon, Earl and I had set up a barbershop in the basement. Our objective was to transform a tool-covered workbench into an elaborate shop where we could cut, trim, and style hair. We had gathered all sorts of cutting tools from blunt-nosed safety scissors to serrated steak knives. What we lacked were customers.

From upstairs in our shared bedroom, we located G.I. Joe, Barbie, Ken, and an assortment of stuffed animals. None had the locks we desired; Barbie, Ken and G.I. Joe had slick, plastic heads with painted-on hair. Our beloved stuffed animals just didn't have the length. We branched out in our hunt for viable clients and found ourselves in Sharon's room. Behold, there we located her small but ideal baby doll collection. Baby First Step had long silky yellow hair; there was a bobbed brunette, and a few others with just enough hair to serve our purpose. None of these were to retain their girly hairdos.

If ever you've had the pleasure of cutting hair, you'll understand that a snip here or there is only followed by another snip here or there and one correction leasts to another resulting in a choppy do. The basement was filled with the snick snack of scissors as we perfected our skill. Once each doll had had their turn in the barber's chair, little was left to distinguish them as girl dolls. Synthetic hair poked straight out from the sides of their heads. Pale plastic scalp shone through left over tufts of hair and large bald spots loomed from every angle.

Although our customers seemed to be completely satisfied with their new haircuts (each wore a pleasant smile) Sharon was appalled. We knew by the way she shrieked in horror when she found her newly coiffed dolls right back where they'd come from - her room. Let is be said that she, nor my parents, were happy with our escapades. We on the other hand were completely satisfied and looked forward to attaining the next level of barbershop skills - shaving.

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