The Reign Of The Demonic Hair Clippers

by Ken Carpenter

When I was growing up there was one day above all others that filled my brothers and me with dread. It was haircut day, and thanks to the mown grass look of the time it came around with the alarming frequency of an obnoxious neighbor.
It wasn’t that we wanted long hair. It wasn’t that the hands of my Mother the family barber were exceedingly barbaric, though I admit they might have induced a touch of nervousness. The reason for our fear and loathing was the evil, black hair clippers she wielded. I’m sure they were forged in some subterranean dungeon and soaked in the blood of a demon to give them a life of their own. This is the story of the clippers from hell.
The murderous follicle choppers entered my life in early childhood. They were brought into our home by the Fuller Brush Man, a gray fellow who sported threatening but impressive clumps of hair charging out of his nostrils. All the kids would stay out of his reach, staring with equal amounts of wonder at his nose hairs and the seemingly bottomless case of gadgets he carried. That case was the womb from which he plucked the lethal looking shears we came to hate.
How I yearned during his later visits to grab the clippers and whack off the nasal jungle that dominated every room he entered. I’m sure there would have been enough hair to create a toupee for a basketball.
The clippers were purchased to save money going to a barber, which seemed okay to us boys because barber chairs were not our cup of tea. They were scary, and I never trusted a man in an apron. But after my first haircut with the new clippers, I would have gladly let a cannibal in an apron cut my hair.
Once the shears got into our house they wasted no time in letting us know who was the boss. They were big, sturdy and solid metal. They could have served as a speed bump for a steam roller and kept on working. When switched on they whined like a Boeing 747 and people had to shout to be heard over them. And believe me, once the haircuts started there was a lot of shouting going on.
The sadist who designed them had made sure that after thirty seconds of running time the cutting tip grew too hot to touch. They continued to get hotter the more they were used, and after three haircuts could have grilled a steak to perfection.
The unholy cutters had a fierce hatred for ears, and several times each haircut they would dive over and take a bite out of them. They weren’t too fond of necks either, and would take turns nicking and branding them with its red hot tip. Every once in a while the clippers would decide to keep you on your toes by yanking out a few hairs by the roots, and howls of pain would be met by screams to sit still or be bald. At times we wished we were bald so the shears would no longer have us at its mercy. No such luck.
The vibration coming from the bowels of those clippers was not to be believed. It would literally shake your whole head if held too close, and if you laid it on a table while it was running you were risking life and limb from the bouncing teeth. My Mom’s whole arm shook for two hours after all the haircuts were done, but it wasn’t too noticeable because we were all doing a bit of shaking about then.
I don’t know what finally happened to the killer clippers, but they should have been torched into tiny bits and welded into a solid lump. Maybe then mankind would be safe. I wouldn’t be surprised if Lucifer himself now wears them in a holster to perform initiations on the newcomers to Hades. So if you have any tendencies which might buy you a first class ticket on the next train to purgatory, I have some advice. Keep a set of earmuffs handy.

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