I walk into the psychic barbershop.

I begin to speak, and a finger is pressed to my lips.

The psychic barber grabs my shoulders and guides me to a chair.

I am blindfolded.

I hear the sounds of scissors.

The electric hum of trimmers barely mask the psychic barber’s muttering “Yes, yes, that’s it,” and “No, no, not quite…”

The humming stops. The scissors stop.

My heart stops.

The blindfold is removed.

I begin to cry.

The psychic barber begins to cry.

We embrace.

“It’s perfect,” I whisper. “Perfect.”

“I know,” he replies. “I know.”