Boy cut BY CAITLIN SHETTERLY

I tried to cut my high school boyfriend’s hair once. We actually put a chair in my parents’ claw-foot bathtub, where he sat while I snipped away at his hair, full of egotism that I might be good at this. I can’t remember how much I took off, but I do remember him crying and clenching his fists and that I had to drive him to Hairbenders in Ellsworth for a somewhat decent repair job.

So, Cowboy had a big opening (he’s a photographer, remember) and since we’ve both been broke he hadn’t had a haircut in weeks and was looking shaggy. He decided the day of, even though we were running late to the gallery, that he wanted me to trim the back of his hair with his beard trimmer and also, with scissors, the top and sides of his head. All I can say is I warned him with the story about the crying kid in the tub.

We’re in the bathroom and he’s handed me the trimmers, and I’m trying to understand how they work, and he’s sitting on the toilet telling me to just follow the hair and clean up his neckline. I swear I had no idea those things worked so fast. Before you can say total disaster, I’m looking at a huge rectangular ski trail traveling up his neck a little too far. Well, a lot too far.

I can’t stop laughing, which is a problem, I admit. When I was little I used to laugh whenever one of my friends got hurt. I think it may have been nerves. Or maybe I’m just sick. I think I laughed when my high school boyfriend clenched his fists like Rumplestiltskin.

Anyway, Cowboy starts to freak.

Him: "I can’t fucking believe you. What did you do?"

Me: Hysterically laughing, unable to answer.

Him: "I trusted you."

Me: More laughing.

Him: "I can’t believe I’d let a person who can’t even pluck her own eyebrows trim my hair."

Me: "No it’s not that bad. Ummm . . . how does thing work exactly?"

Him: "I told you already. Go SLOWLY."

Me: "I am. I’ll fix it."

I pick the whirring thing up again (I'd hate to see me with a vibrator). I start on the other side, far away from the gouge I’ve made on the back of his head. My hands are shaking. We (me and the machine) do it again.

Me: "Oh shit."

Him: "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Me: "This thing is possessed. It’s not me. It, like, takes off on its own."

I see his fists clenching.

Him: "I’m going to show up at my own show looking like a fucking freak."

Me: "Let me just even it out."

And I did finally even it out. Sort of. Although he claims I made a little tail in the middle of his neck, which was only to compensate for how far I’d gone up at the edges. After some stomping and obscenities he even agreed to let me trim the top a little. I got out my meat cleaver scissors.

Him: "No, Not those. Are you fucking insane?"

Me: "This is the sharpest I’ve got. You want sharp, honey."

Seriously, though, a few snips later plus some products of MINE (thank you Matrix for saving my life), it wasn’t so bad. The show was a big hit. And the tail wasn’t that noticeable. Besides, like I told Cowboy, the '80s are back in, dude.

"Bramhall Square" runs every other week, and Caitlin Shetterly can be reached at bramhallsquare@yahoo.com