| The Hairdresser’s Nightmare |
| By Heidi Heimler |
Jason’s receptionist motioned with her chin.
“There, behind the display case - your next client.”
Running his hand through flaxen locks, he turned
toward the salon’s shabby-chic waiting room. At
first he saw no one, but then he spied her behind a
bookcase used to display shampoos and
conditioners. Her head obscured by a large potted
plant, she teetered on pencil-thin stilettos. He
watched as she extended a porcelain-white hand,
crowned with crimson nails and bedecked with
shiny baubles, and grabbed the edge of the shelf.
Her trendy suede skirt clung like a second skin to
her softly rounded hips. An ample bosom rested in
a snug cashmere sweater that begged to be
relieved of its cumbersome burden. She moved
slightly and he marveled at her milky-white neck, so
pale he could barely discern the string of pearls
that danced around it.
Ever since he served as guest stylist on “The Ugly
Duckling” reality show, women flocked to him. He
raised prices; he treated them with blatant
disrespect; sometimes he even defied their
requests. Still, they came in eager droves. Each
“There, behind the display case - your next client.”
Running his hand through flaxen locks, he turned
toward the salon’s shabby-chic waiting room. At
first he saw no one, but then he spied her behind a
bookcase used to display shampoos and
conditioners. Her head obscured by a large potted
plant, she teetered on pencil-thin stilettos. He
watched as she extended a porcelain-white hand,
crowned with crimson nails and bedecked with
shiny baubles, and grabbed the edge of the shelf.
Her trendy suede skirt clung like a second skin to
her softly rounded hips. An ample bosom rested in
a snug cashmere sweater that begged to be
relieved of its cumbersome burden. She moved
slightly and he marveled at her milky-white neck, so
pale he could barely discern the string of pearls
that danced around it.
Ever since he served as guest stylist on “The Ugly
Duckling” reality show, women flocked to him. He
raised prices; he treated them with blatant
disrespect; sometimes he even defied their
requests. Still, they came in eager droves. Each
day he encountered yet another woman desperate for his magic, willing to do anything, pay
any amount, endure any abuse, to look as good as the women he’d transformed on the
television show. God, he was tired of it. But now, finally, he was graced with a client who was
already beautiful; it would be a pleasure to work with her.
When she emerged from the shadows of the bookcase, Jason’s breath caught and a swell of
nausea filled his belly. Feeling the veins in his neck begin to harden, he stared at the figure
before him: grey-pink jowls hung like pancake batter, falling in amorphous globs from a
wooden-spoon face; pockmarks, scars and dark volcanic craters vied for space with a long,
beak-like nose, tiny mouse eyes and a mouth seemingly better suited for feces than for words;
worst of all, an unruly mane of coal-black reptiles sprang from her head, desperately clawing
the air with their gnarled, perpetually wriggling forms.
Mumbling an old prayer he learned in grade school, Jason beseeched the gods to spare him
from having to endure the knot of hideous snakes, having to feign congeniality when what he
really wanted to do was to stuff her into the utility drawer. He retreated to his station, his eyes
downcast as he hurried across the slick wooden floor.
“Ms. Medusa,” the receptionist said, “we’re ready for you. C’mon back.”
The snake-haired woman grinned; rotting, nicotine-stained teeth flashed a sickly yellow then
disappeared into the safety of their drool-filled cave. She slung her oversized faux alligator
purse over her shoulder and followed the receptionist back to the styling cubicle where Jason
waited, quavering. He fingered the protective amulet that hung from his necklace, resting on
his chest like an ornate safety lock. The silver and topaz charm cost so little that he ended up
purchasing one for each of his employees. He’d bought the talismans to ward off hexes and
curses from voodoo priestesses and witches furious about the cost of a cut or the tint in their
hair. What seemed at the time to be a frivolous purchase now proved invaluable, as the
charms kept him and his staff from turning into stone.
Medusa noticed Jason’s amulet. “Not to worry,” she said, her stained smile reappearing. “I don’
t have that effect on people anymore. Years of therapy will do wonders, you know. Now I just
harden onlookers’ arteries, but that takes years to manifest, and could just as easily be caused
by that greasy diet you people eat.”
Jason breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with a sculpture garden in his
waiting room. He motioned for her to sit. “What can I do for you?” he asked, his voice high-
pitched and breaking.
She slid into the chair, studied the image that stared back at her, and frowned. Faint, hairline
cracks began to form at the edge of the mirror. She grasped a clump of wriggling snakes as
tears pooled in the corners of her rodent eyes. “I can’t do anything with it,” she said. “I’ve tried
mousses, gels, even wax. Nothing works.”
He gulped. “So what did you have in mind?”
“I don’t have a clue,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. I saw what you did for that girl on TV. She
went from loser extraordinaire to drop-dead gorgeous. I want you to make me beautiful, too.”
He scratched his head. “Do you think maybe a trim?”
“Tried that. The heads grow back after a couple of days.”
“Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s get you shampooed first. Then we’ll see.”
Jason motioned for his assistant. “Sherry, take this young lady to the sink and give her a good
lathering.”
Sherry eyed him with alarm. “But…”
“Do it!’ he snapped.
Felled by his wrath, Sherry meekly obeyed. Medusa followed her to the back, where rows of
chairs and sinks were lined up like soldiers in formation. Jason felt a hint of relief; he’d bought
himself some time. Yet, a mere seconds later, the flustered assistant burst back into the main
room.
“I quit, you asshole!” Ripping her apron from her body, she tossed it at Jason and marched out
of the salon.
“I don’t have time for this,” he mumbled. Sighing, he made his way back to the shampooing
area, where his oblivious client lay back in the chair, blissfully unaware of the drama she had
inadvertently provoked. Her head rested in the sink behind her, where snakes were slithering
about, climbing over one another like newborn puppies. He took a deep breath, grabbed the
sprayer, placed it directly above Medusa’s head and unleashed a powerful stream of hot
water. In a frenzied fit of reptilian fury, the snakes hissed, wriggled and clawed. Much to Jason’
s surprise, Medusa didn’t seem at all bothered by the scalding water. Quite the contrary, she
emitted sounds of pleasure that would have caused the young hairdresser to blush had he not
been so repulsed by her appearance. Soon, Jason realized that his meager weapon was no
match for the hideous creatures. He let it drop to the floor.
“Hang tight for a minute,” he said. “I’ll be back in a flash.”
Jason made a hasty retreat into the back room, where a vast array of grooming and styling
supplies was kept. Surely he could find some product that would tame the wild beasts. He
scanned the shelves but saw nothing that would even come close. Perhaps, he thought as his
gaze fell upon an opened pack of Marlboros and a book of matches from a nearby bar, I ought
to calm myself first. It had been months since his last puff. Until that day he successfully
quelled the urge to light up. Now, he couldn’t resist.
Lit cigarette in hand, Jason scurried out of the salon. He leaned against the brick wall, allowed
his shoulders to droop and inhaled deeply. Sour-sweet smoke traveled past his tongue and
into his lungs, infusing them with deadly comfort.
“Bum a cigarette?” asked a tanned, pot-bellied young man. Rivulets of sweat ran down his
face. He placed the hedge clippers he’d been using on the ground.
“Only got this one,” Jason said. “But I’ll trade you what’s left of it for five minutes with your
hedge clippers.”
The young man shrugged. “Sure man, whatever floats your boat.”
Jason grabbed the wooden handle of the hedge clippers, bolted back into the salon and made
a beeline for the back room, where Medusa was still reclining, her head in the sink, her eyes
closed. Alarmed, another stylist followed him. “What’re you going to do with those shears? She
asked.
“Get the hell outa here!” he hissed. She retreated as if she’d been stung by a swarm of angry
bees.
Jason hid the garden shears behind his back and leaned down toward Medusa. “Sorry for the
delay,” he said, his voice struggling to conceal the panic that roiled within him.
“It’s OK,” she said without opening her eyes. “It’s nice just to rest here. I actually fell asleep; I’
m so wonderfully relaxed.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” He opened the shears and positioned them within inches of the
wriggling tangle of snakes.
Just before he snapped the shears shut, Medusa opened her eyes. She squinted against the
glint of light that bounced off the metal blade. Then, as reality descended upon her, her mouth
flew open and a bloodcurdling shriek filled the room. Startled, Jason’s hands jerked
downward. The razor-sharp blades met one another with a grinding crunch, but they did not
touch a single slithering reptile. Instead, they tore into the delicate flesh of Medusa’s neck.
Instantly, her body went limp in the chair as a massive gash opened like a gaping mouth just
above the pearl necklace. Partially severed from its base, her head rolled back into the sink,
the snakes twisting madly in their blood-filled cradle.
The young hairdresser stared at his handiwork in muted disbelief. A crimson geyser spewed
from the sliced flesh, quickly covering the floor’s blonde wood and seeping into the suede
leather of his Italian loafers. He dropped the shears into the pool of blood, then bent over and
wretched. When his stomach had emptied the last of its contents and the flow from Medusa
ebbed into a fine trickle, Jason slowly turned and walked away. His shoes squished as he
walked up to the front of the salon; red footprints told the story of his journey.
“Get someone to clean the back room,” he said to the receptionist. “And call the undertaker. I’
m going home.”
She smiled wryly. “You can’t.”
He looked at her in disbelief. “What?”
“Your next client is waiting.” The receptionist pointed toward the waiting room.
Jason forced his spent body to turn and found himself staring into the convulsively twitching
eyes and numerous heads of a hideous serpentine creature.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Hydra; I’ve come all the way from Lerna just to see you. Darling, you’
ve simply got to do something with the hair on these heads.”
any amount, endure any abuse, to look as good as the women he’d transformed on the
television show. God, he was tired of it. But now, finally, he was graced with a client who was
already beautiful; it would be a pleasure to work with her.
When she emerged from the shadows of the bookcase, Jason’s breath caught and a swell of
nausea filled his belly. Feeling the veins in his neck begin to harden, he stared at the figure
before him: grey-pink jowls hung like pancake batter, falling in amorphous globs from a
wooden-spoon face; pockmarks, scars and dark volcanic craters vied for space with a long,
beak-like nose, tiny mouse eyes and a mouth seemingly better suited for feces than for words;
worst of all, an unruly mane of coal-black reptiles sprang from her head, desperately clawing
the air with their gnarled, perpetually wriggling forms.
Mumbling an old prayer he learned in grade school, Jason beseeched the gods to spare him
from having to endure the knot of hideous snakes, having to feign congeniality when what he
really wanted to do was to stuff her into the utility drawer. He retreated to his station, his eyes
downcast as he hurried across the slick wooden floor.
“Ms. Medusa,” the receptionist said, “we’re ready for you. C’mon back.”
The snake-haired woman grinned; rotting, nicotine-stained teeth flashed a sickly yellow then
disappeared into the safety of their drool-filled cave. She slung her oversized faux alligator
purse over her shoulder and followed the receptionist back to the styling cubicle where Jason
waited, quavering. He fingered the protective amulet that hung from his necklace, resting on
his chest like an ornate safety lock. The silver and topaz charm cost so little that he ended up
purchasing one for each of his employees. He’d bought the talismans to ward off hexes and
curses from voodoo priestesses and witches furious about the cost of a cut or the tint in their
hair. What seemed at the time to be a frivolous purchase now proved invaluable, as the
charms kept him and his staff from turning into stone.
Medusa noticed Jason’s amulet. “Not to worry,” she said, her stained smile reappearing. “I don’
t have that effect on people anymore. Years of therapy will do wonders, you know. Now I just
harden onlookers’ arteries, but that takes years to manifest, and could just as easily be caused
by that greasy diet you people eat.”
Jason breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with a sculpture garden in his
waiting room. He motioned for her to sit. “What can I do for you?” he asked, his voice high-
pitched and breaking.
She slid into the chair, studied the image that stared back at her, and frowned. Faint, hairline
cracks began to form at the edge of the mirror. She grasped a clump of wriggling snakes as
tears pooled in the corners of her rodent eyes. “I can’t do anything with it,” she said. “I’ve tried
mousses, gels, even wax. Nothing works.”
He gulped. “So what did you have in mind?”
“I don’t have a clue,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. I saw what you did for that girl on TV. She
went from loser extraordinaire to drop-dead gorgeous. I want you to make me beautiful, too.”
He scratched his head. “Do you think maybe a trim?”
“Tried that. The heads grow back after a couple of days.”
“Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s get you shampooed first. Then we’ll see.”
Jason motioned for his assistant. “Sherry, take this young lady to the sink and give her a good
lathering.”
Sherry eyed him with alarm. “But…”
“Do it!’ he snapped.
Felled by his wrath, Sherry meekly obeyed. Medusa followed her to the back, where rows of
chairs and sinks were lined up like soldiers in formation. Jason felt a hint of relief; he’d bought
himself some time. Yet, a mere seconds later, the flustered assistant burst back into the main
room.
“I quit, you asshole!” Ripping her apron from her body, she tossed it at Jason and marched out
of the salon.
“I don’t have time for this,” he mumbled. Sighing, he made his way back to the shampooing
area, where his oblivious client lay back in the chair, blissfully unaware of the drama she had
inadvertently provoked. Her head rested in the sink behind her, where snakes were slithering
about, climbing over one another like newborn puppies. He took a deep breath, grabbed the
sprayer, placed it directly above Medusa’s head and unleashed a powerful stream of hot
water. In a frenzied fit of reptilian fury, the snakes hissed, wriggled and clawed. Much to Jason’
s surprise, Medusa didn’t seem at all bothered by the scalding water. Quite the contrary, she
emitted sounds of pleasure that would have caused the young hairdresser to blush had he not
been so repulsed by her appearance. Soon, Jason realized that his meager weapon was no
match for the hideous creatures. He let it drop to the floor.
“Hang tight for a minute,” he said. “I’ll be back in a flash.”
Jason made a hasty retreat into the back room, where a vast array of grooming and styling
supplies was kept. Surely he could find some product that would tame the wild beasts. He
scanned the shelves but saw nothing that would even come close. Perhaps, he thought as his
gaze fell upon an opened pack of Marlboros and a book of matches from a nearby bar, I ought
to calm myself first. It had been months since his last puff. Until that day he successfully
quelled the urge to light up. Now, he couldn’t resist.
Lit cigarette in hand, Jason scurried out of the salon. He leaned against the brick wall, allowed
his shoulders to droop and inhaled deeply. Sour-sweet smoke traveled past his tongue and
into his lungs, infusing them with deadly comfort.
“Bum a cigarette?” asked a tanned, pot-bellied young man. Rivulets of sweat ran down his
face. He placed the hedge clippers he’d been using on the ground.
“Only got this one,” Jason said. “But I’ll trade you what’s left of it for five minutes with your
hedge clippers.”
The young man shrugged. “Sure man, whatever floats your boat.”
Jason grabbed the wooden handle of the hedge clippers, bolted back into the salon and made
a beeline for the back room, where Medusa was still reclining, her head in the sink, her eyes
closed. Alarmed, another stylist followed him. “What’re you going to do with those shears? She
asked.
“Get the hell outa here!” he hissed. She retreated as if she’d been stung by a swarm of angry
bees.
Jason hid the garden shears behind his back and leaned down toward Medusa. “Sorry for the
delay,” he said, his voice struggling to conceal the panic that roiled within him.
“It’s OK,” she said without opening her eyes. “It’s nice just to rest here. I actually fell asleep; I’
m so wonderfully relaxed.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” He opened the shears and positioned them within inches of the
wriggling tangle of snakes.
Just before he snapped the shears shut, Medusa opened her eyes. She squinted against the
glint of light that bounced off the metal blade. Then, as reality descended upon her, her mouth
flew open and a bloodcurdling shriek filled the room. Startled, Jason’s hands jerked
downward. The razor-sharp blades met one another with a grinding crunch, but they did not
touch a single slithering reptile. Instead, they tore into the delicate flesh of Medusa’s neck.
Instantly, her body went limp in the chair as a massive gash opened like a gaping mouth just
above the pearl necklace. Partially severed from its base, her head rolled back into the sink,
the snakes twisting madly in their blood-filled cradle.
The young hairdresser stared at his handiwork in muted disbelief. A crimson geyser spewed
from the sliced flesh, quickly covering the floor’s blonde wood and seeping into the suede
leather of his Italian loafers. He dropped the shears into the pool of blood, then bent over and
wretched. When his stomach had emptied the last of its contents and the flow from Medusa
ebbed into a fine trickle, Jason slowly turned and walked away. His shoes squished as he
walked up to the front of the salon; red footprints told the story of his journey.
“Get someone to clean the back room,” he said to the receptionist. “And call the undertaker. I’
m going home.”
She smiled wryly. “You can’t.”
He looked at her in disbelief. “What?”
“Your next client is waiting.” The receptionist pointed toward the waiting room.
Jason forced his spent body to turn and found himself staring into the convulsively twitching
eyes and numerous heads of a hideous serpentine creature.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Hydra; I’ve come all the way from Lerna just to see you. Darling, you’
ve simply got to do something with the hair on these heads.”
