Sampson

By Patti

© 2001

*

Shhrrrrrtttttttttt. Shhhhrrrrrrttttttttt.

Justin stood in the dimly lit bathroom. The only light in the room was coming from the two small scented votives on both sides of the fiberglass-inlaid sink and a slight reflection from the long silver blades he opened and closed in his hand.

Shhrrrrrtttttttttt. Shhhhrrrrrrttttttttt.

The scissors opened and closed effortlessly. He stared into his eyes—brown not blue, his blue eyes were resting in a green and white travel case—and he focused on each detail of his face. The way his left eye never opened as wide as the right one, and the permanent puffiness underneath held his attention for a while. He noticed for the first time how his eyebrows looked as if they were two horizontal lines drawn on with the broad end of a marker. His nose—the way the narrow bridge widened down his face—made him wonder briefly if, despite all the jokes, maybe he had some black in him after all.

He studied his face and for the first time in years actually saw himself. Justin then gave his attention to the reason why he had been unable to find Justin Timberlake.

His hair.

Never in his wildest daydreams as a child did he ever think that a collection of dried out strands and dead ends could do so much.

Did he have his hair, or did his hair have him, Justin wondered, a wry smile appeared slowly—the ever present laugh lines forming parentheses around his mouth.

With his left hand he reached up and grabbed a small tuft of curls. He then raised his right hand and the scissors met their victim.

Snip.

This is for the dozens of online petitions declaring proudly, “Hell no, the ‘fro can’t go!”

Another chunk of hair.

Snip

This is for the migraines caused by those damn cornrows—whose idea was that anyway?—and the hours of pulling, tightening, and twisting.

The liberated hairs fell delicately, tickling his ears and his neck.

Two more chunks of hair.

Snip Snip

And another.

This is for Britney’s thank you’s. And the inquisition that followed.

Snip

“Was Britney talking about your hair Justin?”

Snip

“Justin, we love you more than that whore Britney ever could!”

Snip

Justin grabbed and cut faster now, feeling less and less sentimental about his falling hair.

Snip

”Hey Curly, what’s with the ‘fro?”

Snip

“Hey Lance, I’m bored. Let’s bleach our hair.”

Snip

“Justin, you’ll be our golden boy—those curls of your will drive the girls wild.”

Snip

Fuck you Lou.

Snip

Fuck your ‘golden boy’

Snip

Fuck your heartthrob.

Snip

Fuck. This.

The scissors had stopped moving. Uneven patches that the large scissors couldn’t reach scattered his head. Placing them down gently, he picked up a small black electric travel razor.

The whirring vibrations of the triple-blade action on his head calmed Justin. When he was finished he ran his palms along the short bristles. He looked down and saw his feet surrounded by what he once thought to be his strength. The small clumps of curls were twisted grotesquely, shriveled up, as if waiting to die.

Justin looked into the mirror and smiled, seeing himself clearly for the first time. Smiling because he was stronger than those damn curls.