
The Cutting of Hair by Larry Smith My wife cuts my hair has done so for 20 years since my crop fell off. Even when we've argued we roll out the chair, draw out the clippers and scissors from the drawer. She touches my shoulders, from behind and robes me in a half-sheet pinned at the neck. A buzz rolls over my skull; gray hair falls down my arms. My chatter soon subsides to the quiet of her caring as she focuses on ears, comes round to bring scissors to eyebrows. She loosens the sheet and I gather it up to shake hair outside while she cleans and puts away tools. How I love this woman. It's a ritual as old as Eve and Adam, the cutting of hair.