My scissors cut through time. As their marbled blades glide through hair, their click defines a moment which cannot be reversed. I watch as the past goes slowly tumbling to the floor, allowing the future to grow.
I have cut the tight, curly hair of his Eminence, Mansa Musa, the richest man to ever live, and charged him extra for the trim of his beard. He bestowed upon me a wig of pure, spun gold, which I later cut for practice. I threw the offcuts into the river with the rest of the real, human hair. I have cut the slack, black locks of a woman called Amoli, too poor for any other names, and poorer in luck and friendship than anyone who ever lived, or ever will live. From her, I took a solitary poem, the only thing she ever produced in her sad life. I read it, threw it in the fire, and forgot it. And I have cut the hair of many between those polarities of abundance. Their cuts and my prices have been varied and many.
It is an art that has its origins, like many crafts, in practicality. A hunter can’t range a spear throw if there is fringe in his eye. The offcuts make for fine insulation against harsh winters. The artistry follows soon after. Styles, both simple and elaborate, decorate the human imagination with judgements first made with our eyes. We see the silhouette of the person before us first. We see the colour of their skin. The fatness of their bodies. The clothes they wear. The posture they hold. For many of us, our decision about who this new person must be is formulated in a few moments, forged between photons and rouge synapses. But it is the hair that is the most defining feature in this formulae.
Don’t believe it? Put something over your hair, so that it is completely concealed and look in the mirror. There will be a new person staring back at you, bemused. The hair defines the shape of the head. It shades the skin by contrast. It depicts wealth or poverty. It tells you if that person cares little for their outward appearance, or if it is their greatest concern. It also marks their taste, or lack of.
These aesthetic concerns are a passing interest to me. It is the domain of temporary things to be invested in their fleeting presence upon this coil, contradictory as it is. Perhaps not knowing my own limits has gifted me an alternate perspective. Rather than seeking to mark my passage, as I do not know if my passage has any end or destination, I find myself with no desire to notch my existence into the branches of history. I am happy to wander, performing this simple service for any I cross. Cats and dogs included.
I would not say I am particularly dedicated to pursuing perfection in my craft. Granted, after so many cuts, it is hard not to have ingested a little finesse. But there is one guarantee that I pride myself on; my blades always cut.
Their metal bodies were forged long before me, perhaps intended for something else, from a material that outwardly resembles flowing steel. Yet they are so light that on many occasions, a stiff breeze has threatened to dislodge them from their resting place. And they do cut through anything; hair, paper, cloth, nails, skin, bone, muscle, blood, DNA, wood, stone, gold, diamond, plastic, tin, coal, the original manuscript of Hamlet, feathers, eyes, teeth, hearts, soil, lava, larvae, butternuts, sardines, radiators, dustbins, brooms, bedsheets, bandages, anacondas, anecdotes, allergies, ambulances, articulation, string and, as I said before, time. But mostly they cut hair.
And the day they don’t, I’ll go do something else.
Paddy Dobson
16th July 2020