Lulled into a tranquil daze, I began quoting the Beatitudes as he scrubbed. Through the gospels of Mathew, Mark, Luke, John, and a few more folks I can’t remember, he scrubbed. The clouds opened, and the light shone through, and there was Jesus descending from the clouds, touching my arm, lifting me higher and higher and higher and…

“All done,” he whispered, knowing exactly what he had done. “Like I said,” he continued, smiling while wringing his towel, “sometimes, you can have heaven on earth.”

I rose from the bowl and saw Oscar standing proudly, dressed in black, flared, no pleat slacks and a tight-fitting, canary-colored top. He was peering down from the top of the hardwood staircase that led to the second level of the loft. Oscar was the man, holding his shears like a Japanese samurai warrior. A black Zorro, an ebony Edward Scissorhands. I ascended the stairs and eased into his chair.

“You know, I was thinking maybe—”

“Silence!” he roared. The whole shop grew still. Even the shampoo god had to pause.

He swung me around in the chair like a graceful black raven sizing up its wounded prey. Spinning me once, he glared. Spinning me twice, he stared. Then he snapped on his cloak and began.

“Scissors!” he yelled. “Trimmers!” he shouted.

He began with a snip, then a stare. Then a cut and a glare. “Color!” he yelled. “Toner!” he shouted, while several assistants hurried and scurried about, fulfilling every command.

Almost two hours later, out of the daze of the hair-covered haze, there was Oscar, finished—a glass of riesling in his hand and a smirk of satisfaction on his face. Hair was his sex, style was his orgasm. Sam stood in the corner and I noticed a tear of adulation falling from his eye.

Gail was also standing nearby, looking as if she too had just made a connection. Then a hand slowly moved from her hip, up her waist to her face, past her lips. It was the shampoo god. Knowing Gail, she had just had sex.

“Can I take a look?” I humbly requested. Shaking his head with a smile, he calmly protested.

He stepped aside, revealing a light-skinned man. He was well built, smiling wide, obviously proud of how much his momma had spent on regularly scheduled trips to the dentist.

“The name is Fine. Sam Fine.” It was Sam Fine, the makeup guru. The man responsible for the faces of Vanessa Williams, Mary J. Blige, and supermodels like Tyra Banks and Naomi Campbell. Glancing at Gail, he winked. This was obviously her hook up.

While the sun fell and the moon rose, like Picasso, he painted. My face was his canvas. Using his small brush, light brush, black brush, white brush, he painted. When the moon had illuminated the night and the cold winds blew gently through the crack in the window, fine Sam Fine announced that he was finished.