The Touch Of His Magic Hands

I look for passion everywhere. If I can’t find it, I feel miserable. Everything I do has to have a meaning. If I don’t understand the whys and the hows, I feel devastated. It’s a constant struggle.

I’m not alone. There are people like me everywhere, we’re on the same quest.

My job. It’s all about the money isn’t it? If not, it wouldn’t be a job? Dreams. They never become real? If they did, they wouldn’t be dreams?

It’s me, thinking, while walking.

It’s cold. I’m freezing. It’s dark, and the streets are covered with snow. Finally, I reach the doorbell.

I hear footsteps.

“You’re early.” The tall, read haired man in his fifties, smiles as he welcomes me to his home.

“How are you? Did you walk? It’s cold isn’t it? Are you thirsty?” His mouth keeps moving, faster and faster.

I’m not used to talking. I’m a listener. I keep looking in the mirror, listening, while he moves his hands through my hair. It’s amazing what he can do with scissors.

Finally. I ask, “how come you decided to cut hair?”

His hands are still moving. He looks straight at me in the mirror. “That’s easy. I love people. It’s not the hair. It’s the people.”

“Look. What do you think? Is it short enough?”

“It’s perfect, as always.”

As I’m walking home, watching the snow covered trees, I’m thinking about the touch of his magic hands and his passion. It’s obvious why he’s amazing, and why people are lining up for him to cut their hair.

It’s not the hair, it’s the people.