Out of His Mind by Lemon

---

Before heading out the door, I quickly combed back my hair. I hadn't had a chance to tame my unruly mop of brown tangles at a salon, but it was nothing a bit of water and brush couldn't fix. In 30 seconds, I achieved a slicked-back look, my forelock flowing seamlessly into the hair at the back of my head, the ends at my nape curling out over my shirt collar.

"Lookin' good, Spencer," I said to my reflection. I looked professional enough for my first day. And still, it's not like this was an office job. I didn't need to show up with a neat part and clipped back and sides.

A short drive later, I found myself at the entrance of M.H. Dawson Psychiatric Hospital. After weeks of searching for a new job, Mr. Thomson took a chance on me, even though I didn't have any medical experience. "And no medical experience is needed," Mr. Thomson reminded me as we walked the white halls of the various wards, turning corners and weaving through corridors on the way to his office. "Think of an orderly as an aide, no different from an aide's work in any other job. Just do as your told. The only thing different about this job is that you work in a hospital."

"Not just a hospital," a woman piped in. She was waiting outside Mr. Thomson's office. "This is a hospital where all our patients are diagnosed with chronic and acute mental illnesses for a variety of reasons, and we treat a variety of conditions. For the most part everyone here is more a danger to themselves than they are to you." He raised a gloved finger. "But! That's no reason not to follow protocol 100% of the time. You wouldn't leave a sharp object in the room of someone on suicide watch, even if he wouldn't use it against you. On the other hand." She lowered her voice to a hush. "And I don't say this to scare you, but there are certain patients who would do you harm for one reason or another. To escape. Or because they would enjoy it. Or because they've been secretly spitting out their meds, and Drew Barrymore told them they have to assassinate you."

Mr. Thomson flashed a small smile at me. "Nurse Mary Patron is one of our most senior providers here. She'll make sure you have everything you need."

Nurse Patron helped me pick out a uniform, finished my tour of the hospital, and gave me my first set of tasks. By late morning, I had cleaned 4 bathrooms, delivered to everyone on E Ward their morning medication (patients on E Ward could be trusted to take their medication without further prodding), and restocked the medical supply room for B Ward. My pager rang--Mr. Thomson had chuckled when telling me that pagers were still state-of-the-art technology for hospitals in the 21st Century--and I dialed the number. "Hi Spencer, this is Nurse Katz we're short a hand in C Ward for lunch today. Could you come down and give us a hand?"

Upon arrival, Nurse Katz rolled a cart of trays to me. "Look, everyone in C Ward is fine." She put an uncomfortable stress on "fine," as if to be reassuring to me. "But they're more difficult than patients on D and E Wards. Still, everyone is non-violent, and all you need to do is look through the window, make sure you have eyes on the patient. They know for lunchtime they should be on the far side of the room. Walk in, crouch down to put down the tray, don't bend."

"Don't bend?"

"It's just so you can keep your eyes on them. Again, they're all fine!" She stressed "fine" again. "We're all about keeping precautions though. Crouch, put down the tray, and come back out. It's easy. If you need me, just use this." She handed me a walkie talkie. "No pager, just radio in." She gave me a small smile and turned back down the corridor. Everything was going well. I had finished serving 3 of 12 patients in the ward. I made sure I had eyes on the patient; there were all on the far side of the room like Nurse Katz said. I entered, crouched, and left. No incident.

I went to door 4. The patient--a middle aged man with wispy hair--stood on the far side of the room. As I peeped through the window, he gave me a big grin that didn't reach his eyes. I entered, crouched. Keeping my eyes on his wide grin unsettled me, but that was protocol. I set down the tray and turned back for the door. When I used my badge to exit the room, nothing happened. The door remained locked.

I radioed in. "Nurse Katz, come in. This is Spencer Smith. My card won't work to let me out of a patient room." A few seconds of crackle. No response. "Nurse--"

"Spencer, bad timing. The security system has gone out, but everything is fine! When this happens, the rooms remained locked so patients can't leave. Just sit tight, and we'll get you as soon as we can."

###

My, my. This dark-headed fellow's curls all brushed back gave me such a feeling that I'd like to hack. Hack, hack, hack that hair away, and watch it fall to his dismay. The tresses, once slicked back, had dried and poofed up into voluptuous curls, tendrils of chocolate brown. Oh dear, I wanted nothing more than to cape him up and relieve him of that furry crown.

He fumbled with that talkie talkie, distressed by his current predicament. You may be thinking that I'm the cause of his ill-timed incident. I assure you that I have not the slightest control of this penitentiary's security than I do over the weather. But that doesn't mean I haven't waited for a moment like this. I haven't barbered a head of hair in quite some time.

Oh yes, I remember the last time. The last time before they locked me away, all because I had taken someone else's locks away. This young fellow came into my shop, not unlike our dear Spencer here today. He walked in with his golden curls, and oh what did he say? I believe it was, "Just a trim, no more than half an inch off." I pinched myself to hold in a scoff. Such a beautiful mane of golden wheat. No, no, better that it laid at my feet. With a flourish, I sailed my cape into the air, and the young man rested into my chair.

It suddenly became difficult to breathe. My palms became clammy. My heart raced. I picked up clipper and comb. Starting at the nape, I sliced away several inches of curls. My young patron raised his eyebrows. "No more than half an inch." I ignored him. My comb climbed up the back. Swipe, szzzz szzzz szzzz. Silken tresses plopped on my shoes. Halfway up the back of his head, I saw the warm, soft fuzz of his head. I did not dare touch it. Not yet. I continued the path, harvesting lock after lock of honey-colored hair. Swipe, szzzz szzzz szzzz, I buzzed any obstinate hairs poking out the teeth of my comb. The back was finished. I admired my work. If I stopped here, he had something like a ridiculously severe bob cut. Unruly sideburns and a moppish top contrasting his tapered nape and clippered back. I brushed a hand against the back of his head, feeling the semi-soft, semi-bristly fur.

His eyes widened, realizing what I had done. But I couldn't stop here; we had reached a point of no return. I had though about leaving him a bit on top. I didn't plan on completely shaving this mop. But now the young lad was onto my plan. I did not have time to get a guard in hand. And so, with no other option left, I decided to had to leave him completely bereft. I took the screaming clippers and placed them on his hairline. The look on his face--confusion, anger--was simply sublime. I gave a wide grin and brough the teeth in. Front to back, the clippers sang as I raced them against the grain.

Lucious blonde curls tumbled. Onto my shoes. Onto his lap. I continued pass after pass, stripping him bare, leaving sandpaper in the wake of my clippers. Dejected, consigned to his fate, he pouted as I removed the side burns. Tendrils of blonde joining the mass in his lap. All that was left was the back. I felt a tad reluctant to swipe away this soft patch of fuzz, but I couldn't really leave him with that without making the entire cut ridiculous. As a peeled off the last wad of peachy fuzz, the police had arrived. The young man, son of the mayor, had paged for him. They did an investigation and discovered my dozens of other victims. I deemed unrepentant, an almost certain recidivist. No head of hair would be safe from me.

They were right, of course. And so here I was. But as I told you. I had planned for--hoped for--a day like to do. I am not violent. Nurse Katz, I'm sure, told our dear little Spencer that. So, I must say, that I am terribly sorry that, while Spencer fumbled with his talked, I took my breakfast tray across the back of his head.

###

I woke, a little groggy, to a splitting headache. I tried to sit up only to find myself bound to a bedside chair. My arms and legs were tied. I sat immobilized. The wide-grinned man appeared, and I flinched. He cooed, "I'm not going to hurt you." I narrowed my eyes. "Well, not after your little spill. I am sorry about that. But I promise there will be no more injuries." I didn't respond. His grin widened even further. "Your hair. I have not see hair like that in quite some time."

He raised up a spray bottle. "They gave me this when I earned the privilege of having houseplants in my room." Spritz, spritz, spritz. All over my head. I closed my eyes as beads of water formed on my face. He wiped my face with a hand towel, and I flinched again.

The walkie talkie crackled. My heart rose. "Spencer--if you can hear me--this is Nurse Katz. They've identified the issue, but I'm sorry to say that it's going to take 30 minutes to reboot the entire security system and allow us to open the doors. Hang in there! Everything is fine!" My heart sank. Everything was not fine.

The wide-grinned man purred, "Oh we have plenty of time, Spency." He crouched and peeled back of a patch of the linoleum floor, revealing a small hard plastic case. He raised the lid. Inside, a set of barbering tools: combs, scissors ... clippers. An assortment of blades and guards.

###

What beautiful hair! Oh my, how fair! I brushed my comb back through his thick wave, wondering how much we should save.

I started with scissors and grabbed a chunk of hair from the crown. Schz, schz, shz, the scissors crunched. I sprinkled the wet curls onto his lap. I left behind several inches still on top. I had to do this in stages. Savor the moment. I continued around his head, picking random spots. I twirled my fingers in his damp locks, then grabbed. Schz, schz, schz. Another heap tossed to his lap. Grab and snip. Grab and snip. Schz, schz, schz. I took a snap back to admire. He still had quite the unruly mop but now a bit tamer, reduced a bit inside. Almost a mod cut.

What hairy, hairy head this young fellow wears. I wonder how the clipper blade fares. Sailing, sailing through his locks. Locks lopped off.

###

The wide-grinned man turned away fiddling with this kit. As he dumped hair onto my lap, I had started loosing the knots around my wrists. With his back turned, I worked harder, not shy to hide my attempt at releasing myself. I was no wrestler, but I was younger. His slight frame looked like it could be easily knocked over after I released myself. My fingers fumbled furiously on the knots. My nails dug at the loose bits, seeking any hold to loosen them further.

I felt the last bit of loose knot. To better reach for it, I leaned slowly forward. But, unwittingly, in the process of loosening the knots, I had slowly scooted myself forward in the chair. The slightly lean moved my center of gravity from over the chair to over the floor, where I tumbled.

The wide-grinned man tsked at me.

###

My, my, what an amusing sight. Our young patron tried to take flight. His wet tendrils flailed and plopped as he tumbled. And now the young man tried to make a mumble. But he had landed on a delicate pile of his own tresses. A neat little pile I had trimmed, now made into messes. That neat little pile might have softened his fall, if only I had taken more initiative, had the gall. Had the gall to snip more of that pretty hair.

I lifted him back into the chair and tightened back up those knots. "I had said no more injuries, but I think that little oopsy was your fault." Taking clipper and comb, I relived the moment of the mayor's son. The only difference was waves of chocolate instead of amber. At the nape, I scooped up his flared out curls with my comb. And now the clippers. Szzzzz, szzzzz, szzzz. The brunette curls plopped around the chair. I worked my way up the back. Scoop and clip. Szzzz, szzzz, szzzz. Scoop and clip. Szzzz, szzzz, szzzz. Another quirky bob successfully done, I mused to myself. I admired the chestnut fur, that same semi-soft, semi-bristly hair after a fresh clipping. I needn't worry about surprising my patron now of the length. I brushed my hand, feeling the freshly barbered pelt.

Thanks to the slow movement of the security, we can take our time.

###

An alarming amount of hair spilled onto my shoulders and lap. I nearly screamed when I felt him run his hand up the back of my head. I felt the coolness of his fingers. How much hair was he leaving me!

Not much by the looks of my left side. I didn't have a mirror, but I felt the tug of the clippers above my ear and heard the metal teeth grate over the comb. Szzzz, szzzz, szzzz. A clump of brown hair landed onto my shoulder and rolled down my chest, onto my lap. Another tug. Szzzz, szzzz, szzzz. More clumps tumbling. Clumps and clumps.

He moved to the right side of my head. Same treatment. Szzzz, szzzz, szzzz. Wads of chocolate brown rained.

###

Oh goody, how much better than last. This is a thrilling return to my past. Those clippered sides and back. How fuzz, fuzz, fuzzy. And now all that remains is the mop on top. How should I go about giving it a lop? Oh but why rush this fun? The sides, after all, aren't really done.

I placed the bare clippers at the nape of his neck. They screamed all the way to the top, the soft fuzz falling like snow. I made further passes up the back until I left behind nothing but stubble. The sides received the same service. I placed the clippers at the base of his left sideburn and sent them racing upward. More bristles fell, a light dusting to coat the inches-long tresses all over his shoulders, chest, and lap.

Now, our dear Spency is really something. Tight, tight sides making his mop looking even more ridiculous. Right then and there, I had the urge to put the clippers right on his forehead and end it. You'll be surprised to know that I restrained myself.

I put a #3 guard on the clippers and took up my comb once. I combed all his hair forward. The slightly damp tresses trailed water still, sending small droplets on his face. I brushed back the hair at the crown his head and placed the clippers midway on his call and pushed back. The caramel curls gave way like harvested wheat, spilling onto his neck and off the back of the chair. I mowed down the crown. Whzzzz, whzzzz, whzzzz. I gave the bristles a good tousle.

I took another section, brushing back all his hair except for two inches at the front of his hair and continued the process. Whzzzz, whzzzz, whzzzz. Whzzzz, whzzzz, whzzzz. Spencer's mop had been quite tamed now. Tight sides, and a mostly clippered top. The front part of his hair hung down to his lips.

"Spency, we just have the front section now, and then we'll have you out of here." He gave no response except a weak grunt. I took up my scissors in one hand and the absurdly long locks in the other. I combed them up and out, so that everything above two of my fingers spilled over. I primed the scissors in the air then snapped them shut over the tendrils of hair. Schz, schz, schz. The hair tumbled. Spencer gasped, perhaps knowing everything was closing in now. I took up section after section. Schz, schz, schz. Quite the mass of hair had accumulated now. If Spencer took another spill, at least it would be a smidge softer this time.

I stood back. Spencer had a nice, smart crew cut. The stubble of the sides blended into the #3 on top, which beautifully blended gradually into the one-inch-long bangs.

"This is quite a look, dear Spencer. But it's a bit too kiddy." He grimaced. I fired up the clippers again. I generously left the #3 guard attached. I had a fondness for the fawn fuzz on top of his head. I placed the clipper on his forehead. At that same moment, the door to my room flew open. Nurse Katz and a coterie of more seasoned orderlies behind her. Spencer almost certainly lightened up at that moment, but we had all the time we needed. "We'll only be a minute, Nurse Katz." I pushed the clippers back, sending tufts of brown hair flying. It was only a little bit left and before Nurse Katz or the orderlies could reach me, I had finished clippering our young Spencer.

As they drug me away to be restrained to my bed, I gave one last look at Spencer.

My, my, what a beautifully barbered head. Much handsomer than when we entered, I'm sure it will be said. I'm a bit sad this moment will likely never come again. But we cannot live life only wondering what could have been. I shared this moment with Spencer, snipping and clipping off his every lock. I would not trade that moment, not even for a barber's smock.

### EPILOGUE ###

I was rattled by the experience. Mr. Thomson let me take the rest of the week off with pay. I'm sure he was just hoping I wouldn't sue the hospital or something. On Monday, I gave him a call.

"You want to come back?" He sounded incredulous.

"Well, I had spent several weeks already looking for work, and if the worst thing that happens to me is that I get a haircut, that's not so bad." I rubbed my shorn head as I hung up the phone, still wincing at the feel of the bristles on the back of my head.

Over the next several weeks, I cleaned more bathrooms, delivered more medications, and served more meals. I let my hair grow back out. It was at an awkward stage. I looked like a furry ball. Nurse Katz paged me. I called. "Spencer, I hate to ask, but could you take care of breakfast for C Ward today? No one will make you go to Patient 56's room." The wide-grinned man.

"It's no problem. I can do C Ward. Including Patient 56."

She hesitated. "Ok, but only because you offered. I'm making a note that you offered! But just call me if you decide to skip that room!"

I delivered breakfast to the first three rooms. I followed protocol just like always. I went to the fourth. He stood on the far side of the room. I entered. He didn't smile as I kept my gaze on him and lowered the tray. I stood again, but didn't leave. He remained expressionless. "I see you've let yourself go again."

I walked over to him and pulled a kit from behind my back. I didn't have to open it for him to know what was inside. "Would you give me a haircut again?"

His wide grin returned. He opened the box while I held it in my hands and removed the clippers, then walked behind me. He flicked them on, and they purred. He didn't put them on my head yet.

"I want the same thing you gave me last time."

"Spency, I can't promise anything."

---