Wisdom

Snip. Snip. Snip. A light hum from the fan in the ceiling. Peaceful and serene.

It has been a long day, and the last customer is just a simple style and trim. The peace of the blades, and the hum of the razor as they cut the follicles to help create a work of art. This art is never permanent, "yet it never claimed to be."

The man smiles as he cuts away, his visage clearly showing the many years spent doing the craft he loves so much. The darkened olive skin was shining in the light with the swift, clean movements of a well-trained artisan.

He smiles as he remembers the first time he ever handled a pair of scissors as a young kid. His mother warning him to be careful, the rough cuts, his sister's reaction to the horror show he had created. His mother concerned with how long it will last like that. He chuckles with mirth, "How times have changed, how they have changed."

The cut, just about done, as he reaches for the razor and touches up the masterpiece he is creating. The small strands of hair falling are as peaceful as snowflakes falling to the ground, showering the ground in an ethereal kind of beauty.

He smiles as he finishes up with some basic styling. A few brushes of his customer's hair and the masterpiece finished. He laughs as he wonders how long this style will last in the downpour of the world. Within the constant changes in temperature, wind, rainfall, it is impossible to know. He looks fondly at it, trying to make sure he remembers as much detail as possible. This kind of artwork is never long lasting, "yet it never claimed to be."