Tuesday
Tonsure
by Lesley Weston
I am discriminating when it comes to a moment such as this. While I am aware that itches require scratching, after decades of the best analysis I have renounced all desire to couple with clumsy philistines.
At this point in my life I require a certain subliminal satisfaction. My choices must be redolent, not merely in the physical sense but also in the symbolic. Which is of course how the local barber, Bob, caught my fancy.
I came upon his shop while strolling the avenue. My eye was immediately caught by the barber's pole outside his door. It was a beautiful thing. An undulating red and white candy cane topped by a perfectly weathered finial. The verdigris displayed a delighful decadence, and of course it rode atop an obvious phallic reference. Ah, a symbol of blood letting and the promise of a calm and practiced hand.
The welcoming chime of a bell heralded my entry into his world.
I was nearly overcome by the slippery smell of tonics, the lingering scent of the oils. The oldfashioned pump-action chairs, the perfect patina on the dangling leather razor strop, and the pleasing snip snip snip of his dangerous shears increased my hunger.
His pupils, poor dear, dialated as my locks continued to tumble from their confinment, I let the waves swoon until they kissed my knees.
The toddler forgotten, Bob's finely honed steel twitched open and closed with a snap. He cleared his throat and asked, "You just want a trim, right?"
I tossed my head and took an empty chair.
Bob went back to the unfortunate child's head, darting glances at me in his mirror. I loosened the top three buttons of my blouse. He nicked the darling boy's ear. Lucky for the little lad, Mom came to the rescue and informed Bob that her child's hair was sufficiently short. Their departure left me and Bob alone.
As he leaned close to drape the apron around me, I felt his breath brush my ear. I arched my neck as he tied the knot, letting my nape connect with his knuckles. His hands trembled as he lifted my mane and smoothed it with his palms.
As his fingers tangled in the strands, I fluttered my lashes. I caught his hand, gently removing the comb. Looking up at him, I wet my lips with the tip of my tongue. In a gutteral release, I whispered, "Cut it all off. " A new calculation flared in his eyes.
Glancing at our reflection, my eyes sauntered downward, and lingered on the proof of my Bob's growing interest. His hands grew hot as they worked my scalp. By the time I was shorn pheromones saturated the air with my heady scent.
The splash of lilac water did not cool Bob down.
When it comes to seduction, I am the mistress of the symbolic gesture. Tonsure makes such stimulating foreplay.
Bob closed the gates and turned out the lights. My severed glory made the perfect love nest, clinging to our skin like a thousand charmed snakes.
Note: Originally published 2005/ Four Hour Hardon
Author's Note
This piece was one of my first endeavors. I was fearless in those days. So when I saw a fifty buck prize for first place in a small competition, I didn't let the fact that the guidelines were specifically for an erotic piece stop me from giving it a whirl. On the other hand, I don't find sex itself very sexy, in fact most depictions of sex bore me to tears. As I thought about this, I realized that I particularly found visual porno exhaustingly dull, so I had no interest in the actual deed.
That line of thought reminded me of a barber I once knew. Lovely man, beautiful old fashioned shop, but not only were his haircuts ridiculously cheap, he never seemed to cut much hair. I always wondered how he paid his rent until I discovered that his real business took place late at night in the shop basement where he shot low-budget pornos.
Still, I wasn't interested in writing about actual sex.
So, instead, I wondered what might seduce a man who has seen everything. Tonsure was the result of that musing.
Lesley C. Weston lives and writes in New York City. Her stories have appeared in A Capella Zoo, Ars Medica, Cake Train, GUD, Duck and Herring, Narrative Magazine, Opium Magazine, Per Contra, Pisgah Review, and Smokelong Quarterly.
FF.Net Editor Commentary (Randall Brown)
Tonsure, the OED online tells me, is "the shaving of the head or part of it as a religious practice or rite, esp. as a preparation to entering the priesthood or a monastic order." It goes on to explain: "In the Eastern Ch. the whole head is shaven (tonsure of St. Paul); in the Roman Ch. either a circular patch on the crown, as in secular priests, or the whole upper part of the head so as to leave only a fringe or circle of hair, as in some monastic orders and friars ( tonsure of St. Peter); in the ancient Celtic Ch. the tonsure 'consisted in shaving the head in front of a line drawn from ear to ear' (tonsure of St. John). A form of tonsure was also practised by the priests of Isis." The linking of the shearing in this piece to foreplay makes for an interesting dynamic.
