I ventured out to the local cosmetologist for a much needed haircut. I was starting to resemble my Viking forbears after several weeks of government mandated lock down. And I had a slight urge to pillage that was a little disconcerting.
The salon door was covered with warning signs. I knew, just beyond this portal pure evil awaited. It was a pestilence so deadly, so evil, with huge nasty teeth, that I was likely to die before my last hair was snipped. True fear gripped me. I was alone, no shield wall to hide behind and no other warriors to share the honor of a glorious victory, or a good death.
I girded up my loins, and with my trusty battle ax, I shoved the door aside. There were no guests waiting for their appointment with death, so I was immediately approached by a petite Asian woman, covered head-to-toe in protective gear. Between the scrubs, gloves, mask, acrylic face shield, not a spot on the young lady was unprotected. Was I getting a hair cut, or major surgery?
Through broken English I understood that I too, must cover my face. I pulled my trusty mask out, bowed slightly, held it to my face, and said, "Hai" - not knowing if she understood Japanese or not.
I was led to the place of my execution. An uncomfortable apparatus designed to make your last moments on Earth as unpleasant as possible. I was four inches too tall, and likely 50 pounds too heavy for the chair, so I had to slump a wee bit so she could reach the crown of my head. She wrapped a black frock around my body, supposedly to catch any falling hair. This was topped by the kerchief of death, which was easily and inch or two too small.
A snip here, a buzz there, and it was finished. Like Samson, I felt my strength slip away - or that might have been the higher concentration of CO2 in my bloodstream as the result of my mask. I stood up and stumbled over to the counter where I was forced to pay for the encounter. And just like that, it was done. I was free. And more importantly, I was still alive.
