Cut Deep

Cutting hair is such a singular pleasure for me, that when the warden asked if I had any special talents that could be turned into a vocation during my ‘stay,' of course I suggested I could cut the other inmates' hair. He said no immediately. “Not you, pick another profession.”

What am I in for, you ask? I'm serving a life sentence for giving a bad haircut. One lousy haircut. I have hundreds of satisfied clients, but apparently, you can get the electric chair for a simple mistake.

So, when the warden said I couldn't cut hair on the inside, it really cut me deep. It wasn't what you think, I didn't murder one of my clients.

He was a walk-in. He refused the razor. I advised against that. Nearly everyone, well everyone in my shop gets the electric clippers. Scissors are for suckers and I liked watching the ball game while I worked.

I combed out a section of hair, from the top of his head. I pinched it between my fingers.

“Hey, that guy was safe,” I said to the television. He was out.

I squeezed the handle. It felt a little tougher than I remember from school, so I really gave it a good squeeze. There were no screams because I had sliced into his windpipe, but the gurgling was my first clue something was wrong.