I would love to cut her hair.

I've cut the hair of all the women in the neighbourhood. I can't describe how it makes me

feel. It's like when I'm sculpting topiary or doing an ice sculpture. When I do that I am

focused on the ice or the trees, I can see nothing else. I don't feel so different because I

know that my hands, my pain, are good for something. Trees and ice don't judge you,

they can't run away. It's like part of me that I can't express through words takes over. I

am a different man when I sculpt. All the shyness and fear vanishes and I feel like I could

do anything. When I sculpt I am master of what I create, when I sculpt I feel like I could

know the words to tell her how I feel.

The women like me cutting their hair, I don't know why. I think they can sense how I feel

inside. I like that. It's like I'm there equal for once, they don't pity me then. They get a

strange, dreamy look in their eyes and I know I'm making them feel good. I like helping

people.

I see strange things when I cut people's hair. It's like I can see straight into their minds

and watch their thoughts. But I don't see with my eyes, but my brain. Different women

have different pictures in their minds. Sometimes it's a tropical beach or a poppy field.

When I did Joyce I saw Tom Jones and for Pam it was a bath of melted chocolate. When

I see these things I know how to style their hair, how to make them happy. I want to

make them fell beautiful because I know what it's like when you feel ugly. It hurts.

That's why it's different to cutting hedges. When I do my topiary I'm on my own with

my thoughts. I can see the image of what I want to create in my head, it comes from me.

But when I style for someone else it's like their dreams drive my blades. I can feel them,

tiny vibrations sending my blades this way and that, weaving their fantasies. It feels

wonderful, like I'm touching their souls. For a brief few moments, we are free, free from

what we're seen as. They tell me things in those moments, their thoughts and passions

and I can knot them into their hair like brightly coloured ribbons. To me, they're no

longer housewives, they are dancers, singers, goddesses. In my hands their dreams come

true and so do might. I am an artist and my soul sings with passion.

I long for Kim to see my artist heart, the real me. I dream about sweeping her up in my

arms and seating her gently in the barber's chair before me. I would be so gentle with her

golden tresses, caressing them, loving them. If I could cut her hair, I would be the man I

am inside, confident, expressive. I would weave love poems and valentines into her

shining locks. I would make love to her soul. If I could style her hair, I would know her

thoughts and dreams, looking behind those beautiful eyes so filled with disguise at what I

am, what I appear to be. I would learn her inner most dreams and make them come true.

If it was a fairytale castle she desired, I'd build he one of flowers and ice, make her my

queen. Then she would she my sculptor's soul and know that I worship her. She is my

Venus, my Mona Liza, my inspiration.

But I dare not. Even if she warmed to me enough to allow me to be that close, my fear is

too great to touch her. How can someone like me improve on perfection? I wouldn't dare

touch a hair on her head. When she's near, I shake and all my poems and art is lost and

hopeless against her radiant. She will never see me as anything more than a monster and

yet every haircut or sculpture I create is and will always be a homage to her.