Sam’s eyes stream with tears as he locks himself in the bathroom. In the house of his father, Sam’s room has no lock. Lost and confused, the bathroom is haven.
His hands tremble with the perfumed soap. Hands, soap, and water: all a vibrant crimson. The soap’s scent doesn’t mask the stench of ebbed life.
“Son, we need to talk,” comes the voice of his father.
“J-just a m-m-minute Dad,” the boy stutters.
“Sam,” spoken with authority, “Open this door.”
Stains of a guilty boy: tear streaked face, hands a faded pink. The tears are gone, but Manoah can sense the anger rising in his son’s breast.
“It was just a dog,” he consoles, “You are a Nazirite, a gift from…”
“Gift!” screams the boy. “This is no gift!” he cries, grabbing at his scalp.
“You will deliver us from…”
“Myself,” interrupts the boy. “The Nazirite.”
Before he can intervene, his son is behind the door once more.
Eyes reflected in the mirror, a fresh razor in hand.
© 2007 Jon Thysell. Some Rights Reserved.
His First Haircut by Jon Thysell is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.