Sisters Do Everything Together

I always wondered what my wife would look like with short hair.  Not moderately short, not semi-short, but very, very short.  I think Doris would look terrific with her dark brown tresses clipped close to the scalp.  She has fine features, a graceful neck, and delicate ears, everything a woman needs to look good with an extremely short haircut.  Unfortunately, she doesn’t agree.  The thought of being completely shorn scares her.  She fears that a very brief haircut would brand her as a lesbian.  If pressed, she will admit that there are a few women like Demi Moore and Charleze Theron who are very attractive with their hair cut short.  But they are the exceptions, Doris insists. She argues that almost all women look better with long hair.  I maintain that a woman who is secure in her femininity need not worry about the length of her hair.  My wife is not persuaded.  Other women may decide to cut their hair; she remains convinced that a short haircut would be a great mistake for her.

Doris’ hair is a rich chocolate brown which shows natural highlights after she’s been in the sun.  She takes very good care of her thick mane, using the best shampoos and conditioners; going to a salon every couple of months for a trim.  Her usual style is a flip, sort of a modified Mary Tyler Moore look, with long bangs.  Sometimes, for special occasions, she wears it pinned up, but for everyday use it comes down.  I gripe this hairdo went out of fashion twenty years ago, but that doesn’t bother her.  Some looks are timeless, she insists, especially hers.  Many times I have hinted that a more up-to-date hairdo would accentuate her beautiful brown eyes, however, she is adamant that this is the perfect style for her.  

Five years ago Doris has humored me by trying a shorter hairstyle.  By “short” I mean a collar length version of her usual flip–nothing too drastic.  This experiment did not last long, however.  She pronounced this look unsatisfactory and almost immediately reverted to longer hair.  For most of our fifteen year marriage she has worn her hair at shoulder length or slightly longer.  That’s how it’s been for the past five years.  I can’t honestly say that it’s unattractive; I’d just like to see a change.

Then, last month, Doris got some disturbing news.  Her older sister, Barbara, was diagnosed with breast cancer.  Doris immediately flew to California to comfort her sibling.  The two have always been close.  Barb is two years older, a popular, vivacious woman with a large circle of friends.  When they were in high school, Barb allowed her kid sister to tag along when she went to dances and parties.  When Barb was elected Homecoming Queen in her senior year, she made sure that a handsome football player escorted Doris to the Homecoming Ball.  When Barb married and moved to the West Coast, the two stayed in touch with weekly phone calls and frequent e-mails.

Barb’s husband, Robert, is a successful corporate executive who provides his wife with a lavish home and an affluent life style.  Despite their wealth, Barb retains a down-to-earth attitude.  She is a typical soccer mom who drives a mini-van instead of a Mercedes.  Unlike many of her neighbors, she does not hire a nanny to look after her three children.  I always have admired Barb for the seemingly effortless way she balances the demands of motherhood and the busy social schedule her husband’s position requires.  I have observed her arrive home after an afternoon spent ferrying kids to various activities dressed in cut-off blue jeans and a t-shirt and half an hour later appear in a designer gown and expensive jewelry for a charity gala.  Although I never attended one of these events, I have no doubt that she was the most glamorous woman in the room.  While Doris is beautiful, her big sister is an absolute knockout with long legs, an athletic figure, sparkling blue eyes, and light brown hair impeccably streaked with an abundance of blonde highlights.  Like my wife, Barb has never worn short hair.  She wears her hair about the same length as Doris, but in a much more fashionable layered style.  

Shortly after arriving in California, Doris called to update me on the medical situation.  The good news was that Barb’s doctor diagnosed her breast cancer at an early stage, before it had spread to other regions of her body.  She recommended surgery to remove the cancerous lumps and lymph nodes, but not the radical mastectomy most women dread.  

“How is Barb holding up?” I inquired.

“She’s doing pretty well, all things considered,” Doris informed me.  “Of course, she’s concerned about her prognosis, but her doctor is very positive.  She says that her chances of making a full recovery are excellent.”

“How long will you be staying there?” I asked.

“At least through next week,” Doris said.  “The surgery is scheduled for Tuesday and I’ll take care of the kids while she’s in the hospital.”

Doris kept me informed of her sister’s condition with daily phone calls.  The surgery went well, with no complications, and by Friday Barb was back at home.  “So what’s next?” I asked.

“In two weeks Barb begins a course of chemotherapy to make sure all of the cancer is out of her system,” she answered.

“Does that mean her hair is going to fall out?” I asked, knowing that this side effect of cancer treatment is something that all women dread.  

“Yes, that’s something she has to deal with,” Doris replied.

“I’m sure she’s not too thrilled about that,” I observed.  I knew that Barb would be concerned about her appearance.  While not vain, like her sister, she takes very good care of her crowing glory.  I can’t recall ever seeing Barb with her hair mussed or in need of a trim.  The thought of my sister-in-law without her carefully tended coiffure was hard to imagine.  I suspected that losing her hair would be nearly as difficult as dealing with the cancer.

“That’s probably the worst part of this whole ordeal,” Doris confided.  “Last night I heard her crying in her bedroom.  When I went to comfort her, she said she feared that Robert won’t love her any more when she’s bald.”

“That’s ridiculous.  I’m sure she’s overreacting,” I guessed.

“I’m not so sure.  Robert has been acting pretty weird lately,” Doris observed.  “He keeps making snide remarks about how awful Barb will look without any hair.  He even brought home a ridiculous Dolly Parton wig as a joke.  Barb didn’t say anything, but I could see that she was deeply hurt.”

“Perhaps she can find a support group of cancer survivors who can help her through this difficult time,” I suggested, trying to be helpful.

“Yes, there’s a group that meets not far from here.  In fact, she’s going to her first meeting tomorrow and I’m tagging along,” she said.

“Just like when you were in high school,” I commented.  “You sisters always did everything together.”

The following evening I received another call from California.  “How did the support group go?” I asked.

“They were wonderful,” Doris exclaimed.  “These women offered all sorts of emotional support and practical advice.  In fact, they’re going to be holding an initiation ceremony for Barb on Sunday.”

“An initiation ceremony?” I queried.  “I don’t understand.  You make it sound like she’s joining a sorority.  “

“Apparently it’s something they do here in California-sort of a New Age ritual,
” she told me.  “When a woman is about to undergo chemotherapy they hold a ceremony where they cut off all her hair.  Then they welcome her into the sisterhood of cancer survivors.”

“Why in the world do they do that?” I asked, genuinely puzzled by this strange rite.

“It’s supposed to show that the woman is in charge of the disease, not vice versa,” Doris explained.  “Rather than let the chemo claim her hair, she voluntarily gives it up.”

“Is this done in private?” I inquired.

“No, it’s supposed to be a public event.  Barb is drawing up a list of friends to invite,” Doris said.

“Do you think I should come?” I offered.

“I’m sure she would appreciate the gesture,” my wife agreed.  “She’s always been very fond of you.”

“Sure.  I’ll call Harry and tell him I’m taking a couple of vacation days,” I told her.  “I’ll make reservations right away.”

The next afternoon I stepped off my flight into the bright California sunshine.  Doris was there to greet me.  “Brian, it’s good to have you here,” she said as she hugged me tightly.  “Barb will be so glad to see you.”

“How’s she doing?” I asked.

“Well, she’s been so busy arranging the ceremony that she hasn’t had time to feel sorry for herself,” Doris observed.  “You know Barb-she always functions best when she’s got some project under way.”

“So this is going to be a big event?” I asked.

“Yes, she’s invited more than fifty people-she’s got a lot of friends,” Doris said.  “Of course, most of them are women.  I hope you don’t mind.”

“I’ve never had a problem being surrounded by beautiful women,” I joked.

“I wish Robert felt the same way,” she commented.  “He’s sort of freaking out.  He thinks this ceremony is a bizarre idea.  Perhaps you could talk with him.”

“Sure, I’ll give it a try,” I said.  Although I agreed to speak with Robert, I didn’t think it would do much good.  I always thought he was kind of a jerk-much too involved in his career; always telling people about his important clients and the big deals he was pulling together.  I never understood what my sister-in-law saw in him, but I learned long ago not to question other people’s taste in marriage partners.

That evening the guests began arriving at the house around eight o’clock, many bearing plates of hors d’oeuvres and bottles of wine.  Barb greeted her friends at the door.  There was much hugging and more than a few tears, but most of the group was in remarkably good spirits.  It seemed that everyone was trying to make this an upbeat event.  The food and drink was set up in Barb’s spacious kitchen and I was pressed into service as bartender.  The atmosphere resembled some Irish wakes I have attended, except the honoree was chatting with the guests, not stiff inside a casket.  Robert, however, was nowhere to be seen.  The story for public consumption was that he was sitting with the children in another wing of the house, but everyone knew that he could not bear to witness the ceremony that would soon take place.

    After an hour of casual socializing, the mood became more serious.  Two women, a red head and a blonde, both sporting closely cropped crew cuts, appeared in the living room.  They seemed to be in charge of the ritual.  They wore white robes embroidered with a variety of religious symbols.  With their pious attitudes they reminded me of altar boys from my Catholic boyhood.  Promptly at nine they began lighting candles and turned down the lights.  They gently herded everyone into the living room where chairs and couches were arranged in a wide circle.  Large pillows were scattered on the floor to accommodate the overflow.  A simple wooden stool and a narrow table covered with a white cloth were positioned in the center of the room.  Two white candles burned on either end of the table.  The scene resembled an altar and I suppose that was no accident.  The only difference between this room and the setting for a Catholic mass was the collection of haircutting implements was arranged between the candles.  A single lamp cast a spotlight on the stool.  Conversation gradually ceased.  Soft New Age music played over the stereo.  When everyone was settled, the two robed women escorted Barb to the center of the room.  She was dressed in an elegant cream colored suit and matching shoes.  She wore a simple gold necklace and diamond studs in her ears.  Her hair was carefully coiffed.  I had never seen her looking lovelier.  

Barb smiled bravely as friends reached out to grasp her hand.  Her escorts indicated that she was to sit on the stool.  When Barb had taken her seat, a tall, gaunt woman wearing multicolored vestments appeared at the entrance to the room.   She was at least fifteen years older than her two assistants.  Her steel gray hair was buzzed close to her scalp.  Apparently this was a requirement for her position.  All eyes turned to inspect this imposing figure.  I had not seen her before.  I concluded that she had stayed apart in an ante-room while the other participants socialized.  I assumed she was a minister or perhaps a priestess in some New Age cult.

With a solemn air she strode to the middle of the room and stood over Barbara.  Doris sat next to me.  She took my hand as the ceremony began.  “My dear sisters,” she intoned, pointedly ignoring me and the two other men in attendance.  Clearly, this was a women’s ritual.  “My name is Virginia, but you may call me Sister Survivor.  I will be presiding at this ceremony, but I’m asking all of you to lend a hand.  We are gathered here this evening to support our sister Barbara.  As you know, she is engaged in a battle against a powerful foe.  She will need your strength to see her through the coming struggle.  I call on you to join me in prayer.”  Everyone bowed their heads as the minister continued:

Almighty mother,
We pray that you look favorably upon our sister Barbara.
We celebrate her courage.
We share her pain.
And we mourn her loss.
We pray that she will find the strength to persevere in her fight.
It will not be an easy struggle, Barbara,
But know that we are with you every step of the way.
We call upon a Higher Power to bless you with grace, dignity, and good humor.
We are here to accompany you as you embark on this journey.
Take our love into your heart and draw upon it in the days to come.

The tall woman then placed her hands on Barbara’s head and everyone joined in saying a fervent “amen.”

The room was still with only a sputtering candle wick interrupting the silence.  The priestess then stepped away from Barbara and selected a large pair of silver scissors from the table.  Barbara shifted her weight anxiously; she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.  I noticed several other women weeping and nervously stroking their own hair.  Without a word, the blonde acolyte took a white cloth from the table, unfolded it, and secured it behind Barb’s neck.  My sister-in-law looked up, vulnerable and expectant, at the priestess.  The tall woman spoke again, this time directly to the woman seated in front of her.  “Barbara, are you ready to join the sisterhood of survivors?”

“I am,” she replied softly.

“And you know what you must give up to join the sisterhood,” she continued.

“Yes, I know I must give up my hair,” Barbara answered in a steady voice.

“And are you willing to allow your sisters to hel
p you make this transition into a new stage of womanhood?” she finished.

“Yes, and I thank them for their help,” Barb said with conviction.  

The dialogue was obviously well rehearsed.  It reminded me the vows a young nun would offer before she was accepted into a religious order.  This ceremony was devised by someone with a Catholic upbringing like my own.

“Then let the shearing begin,” Sister Survivor announced in a loud clear voice.  She reached down and selected a blonde lock from the top of Barbara’s head.  She drew the strand out to its full length and placed the scissors about an inch from her scalp.  Slowly the priestess closed the blades and the hair detached from the initiate’s head.  The red headed assistant took the severed section and reverently placed it on the table.

The minister stepped back and invited the other women to join the ceremony.  “Sisters, I ask you to step forward and help our sister Barbara make her transition to a new stage of womanhood.”  The long haired woman sitting in the front row was obviously a newcomer.  She glanced back and forth at the others, unsure how to proceed.  Sensing her uncertainty, a petite brunette sporting a very brief pixie cut rose and took the scissors from the priestess.  She copied the minister’s actions, selecting another strand further back on Barbara’s head, clipping it close to the scalp, and handing it to the waiting assistant.  Now the rest of the women understood what was expected of them; each one rising, taking her place in the queue, standing patiently in line until her turn came.  After each lock was removed, Barb looked up at her barber and said softly, “Thank you, sister.”

The ceremony was sad but dignified.  Several women clutched tissues and their sniffles could be heard above the clicking scissors and the shuffling feet.  I saw tears streaming down Barbara’s cheeks although she continued smile bravely.  As the woman on the couch next to Doris rose to take her place in line, I looked at my wife, unsure whether I should join her.  She understood my unvoiced question instantly.  “Go ahead,” she whispered, “you’re family,” and gently pushed me toward the file of waiting women.  

The procession inched forward as each one took her turn.  The woman in front passed the scissors back to the next person in line who then opened the blades and claimed another lock of Barbara’s once gorgeous mane.  I watched as the pile of severed hair on the table grew steadily larger.  When my turn came my sister-in-law had very little hair remaining, just a few long strands dangling from the back of her head.  Most of her scalp was covered by short ragged patches of light brown fuzz.  She bowed her head so I could grasp a small handful of her hair.  I inserted the scissors and liberated another strand.  She looked up into my eyes and said sincerely, “Thank you, Brian.”

It fell to Doris to make the final cut.  After she lifted the last long strand and handed it to the red haired assistant, she bent over and kissed her sister on the crown of her head.  “I love you, sister,” she whispered tenderly.  Barbara was weeping freely now, but still smiling.  She reminded me of an actress playing a French woman accused of consorting with the Nazis in a World War II movie.  Resistance fighters seized the collaborator and administered a rough haircut in front of a jeering mob.  Like the actress, Barb’s beautiful hairdo had been reduced to a random assortment of uneven tufts sprouting from her head like an overgrown lawn.  Unlike the movie, however, she did not protest.  Indeed, she seemed grateful to her barbers.

The blonde assistant took the scissors from Doris and steered her back to her seat.  The red headed assistant took a battery powered clipper from the table and handed them to the minister.  It was clear that she intended to reduce Barb’s hair to an even shorter length.  The tall priestess flicked a switch and a distinctive hum filled the room.  She placed her hand on Barbara’s shoulder and looked directly into her eyes.  “Are you ready, sister?” she asked gently.  Barb nodded her assent, bowed her head, and closed her eyes.  Virginia placed the clippers on her forehead and slowly ran them across her head.  A shower of short hairs fell from Barb’s head as the priestess mowed her remaining hair.  This shearing continued for nearly five minutes with the priestess passing the clippers back and forth across her head, down the sides, and around the back.  When she was done all of the hair on Barb’s head was reduced to less than a quarter inch.  No trace of her blonde highlights remained.  The ragged thatch had been replaced by a neat buzz cut-the kind of haircut I received as a young boy at the beginning of my summer vacation.  

Virginia stepped aside as the blonde acolyte took a soft brush and gently whisked the loose hair from Barbara’s head, face and ears.  The redhead removed the cloth from around her shoulders and placed it on the table next to the mound of her severed hair.  Barbara slowly rose from her chair and was enveloped by an enormous embrace from her robed barber.  Her teary eyed friends burst into a sustained round of applause and cheers.  When she finally was free of the minister’s embrace she waved to acknowledge their support.  Unconsciously, she rubbed her hand across her newly shorn scalp, she grinned and the crowd cheered their approval.  She mouthed the words, “thank you,” over and over as the applause continued.

The blonde acolyte appeared in front of Barbara holding a mirror so she could inspect her new image.  At first she just stared into the glass, stroking her head and saying “Wow,” over and over.  One of her friends called, “You look awesome, Barb,” and the crowd joined in voicing their approval.

Finally, the priestess raised her hands for silence.  “I’d like to recognize Barbara’s sister who has traveled here from New York to be with us tonight,” she announced.  “Doris has something she would like to share with us.”

I glanced over at Doris in surprise.  She had not said anything to me about having a part in this ceremony.  Barbara appeared puzzled as well.  We couldn’t figure what my wife was up to.  

Doris leaned over and whispered in my ear.  “Honey, this is something I’ve got to do.  I hope you’ll understand.”  With no further explanation she rose from the couch and walked deliberately to the center of the room.  She and her sister embraced for a long minute and crowd began applauding again.  Then it was Doris’ turn to hold up her hand.  

“Hello everyone,” she began.  “I want to thank you all for being here to support my sister.  When we were little girls growing up Barbara and I used to play beauty parlor.  We would curl and brush each other’s hair to see how beautiful we could make ourselves.  I want you to know that my sister has never looked more beautiful than she does right now.”  Again the room broke into cheers.  Barbara dabbed her eyes as Doris playfully rubbed her sister’s fuzzy head.  Doris held up her hand a second time.  

“Some of you know that there always has been a rivalry between the two of us,” she continued.  “I tried to swim farther, ride my bike faster, get better grades, and sell more Girl Scout cookies than my big sister.  As we grew older our rivalry took different forms.  We compared boyfriends, bra sizes, and our children’s report cards.”&am
p;nbsp; Everyone laughed at my wife’s affectionate tribute to her sister, but I was confused.  I sensed that she was leading up to an announcement, but I had no idea what was coming next.

“Now that I see how beautiful my sister looks with her new haircut, I feel that old rivalry kicking in again,” Doris explained.  “Barbara thinks she’s going to be the center of attention, that she’s going to have all the fun, but I can’t let that happen.   So I have asked Sister Survivor to initiate me into the sisterhood as well.”

The women in the audience paused for a moment in stunned silence as if they hadn’t comprehended what Doris just said.  I wondered if she meant what I thought she meant.  Would she be joining her sister in having all of her hair cut off?  I frantically sought her attention to confirm my suspicion.  When our eyes met she read the question on my face nodded her confirmation.  Her serene expression told me everything I needed to know.  She was going to sacrifice her hair in an act of sisterly solidarity with Barb.  The two of them would be bonded more closely than ever.

Barbara seemed upset.  “You don’t have to do this, Doris,” she protested.  “One bald babe in the family is enough.”

But Doris would not be deterred.  “No, Barb.  I’ve made up my mind.  This is something I need to do.  We’ve done everything else together.  Why not this too?”

The women in the audience screamed their approval.  They chanted my wife’s name.  “Doris, Doris, Doris.”  Eventually Barbara realized that she was powerless to control the group.  She raised her hands in a gesture of surrender and embraced her sister once again.

Eventually Virginia quieted the group.  She spoke: “Doris has indicated her desire to join the sisterhood.  This is highly unusual, but you have given your approval.  I think we should proceed with the ceremony.  Doris, would you please take a seat?”

My wife lowered herself onto the stool where her sister had sat only a few minutes before.  She held her head high and her back straight.  Despite her past objections to short hair, there was no fear on her face.  It seemed that she was eager for her shearing to begin.  The blonde acolyte opened another white cloth and fastened it around Doris’ neck.  The red headed helper handed the scissors to the priestess who offered another prayer:

Almighty mother,
We pray that you look favorably upon our sister Doris.
Give her humility to accept your will.
Give her courage to do your work in this world.
Give her strength to persevere despite adversity.
Bless the love she shares with our sister Barbara.
Bless the sacred bonds that bind our sisterhood.
Bless her for the sacrifice she is about to make.
For there is no greater love than this; that she give up her hair for her sister.

The assembled women joined in a fervent “amen” and then began clapping.  For a prolonged moment the room was filled with the sound of their applause.  When the cheering subsided Virginia opened the scissors in her right hand.  With her left hand she selected a lock of dark hair from the top of Doris’ head and placed the blades about an inch above her scalp.  Now the room was totally silent.  Doris shut her eyes to signal her acceptance of her fate.  The solemn priestess slowly closed the blades around the exposed lock.  A moment later it floated free of Doris’ head and dangled from Virginia’s fingers.  Once again the women burst into applause.  Doris offered a weak smile.  It seemed that at last she realized gravity of her situation.  Now there could be no turning back.  

Virginia handed the scissors to Barbara who selected another lock from her sister’s head, near where the first one had been removed.  “I love you, sis,” she said as she made the next cut.  A row of women rose from their seats and patiently waited in line.  Barbara passed the cutting implement to the next woman and drifted to my side.  “You are amazing,” I whispered to my sister-in-law as we hugged tightly.

“Your wife is more amazing,” she insisted.  “I had no choice about this; she did.”  We stood for a moment, side by side, watching the line progress.  With each new participant the dark mound of hair on the table grew larger and the amount of hair remaining on Doris’ head diminished.

Barbara turned to me, “Brian, I think you should take your place in line.”

“Would it be all right?” I asked.

“I think it is perfectly all right,” she said.  Barb gave me a little shove on my butt and I took my place behind a blonde with a neat short haircut.  She looked as though she might have been a chemo patient few months ago.  She turned to me and said in a low voice, “I think your wife is amazing.”

“I do too,” I said in complete agreement.  We slowly moved toward the front of the line.  By the time the woman ahead of me took the scissors all of the long hair had been clipped from the top of Doris’ head.  In place of her glossy dark mane there was an uneven patch of short bristles.  The hair on the sides, however, still hung to her shoulders.  She looked a bit like a medieval monk with a grown out tonsure.  Tears were streaming down her cheeks but she did not seem unhappy.  These were tears of joy.  It was fortunate that Doris could not see how she looked right now or she might have shed tears of dismay.

The woman ahead of me finished her cut, handed the hank of hair to the blonde acolyte who was collecting them by the fistful and thrust the scissors into my hand.  I stood over my wife and reached down to select a piece of hair from above her ear.  Doris must have recognized my touch because she looked up at me.  “Well, Brian, you’ll finally see me with a short haircut,” she said through her tears.

“I love you, honey,” was the only response that came to mind.  My hand was shaking slightly as I snipped another long strand from her head.  I clutched the severed hair, reluctant to surrender it to the helper.  “May I keep this?” I asked the assistant.

“Sure, go ahead,” she replied.  I took the souvenir back to my seat and gently caressed it as the shearing continued.  It was ten minutes more before all of the women had taken their turns and the last long lock was removed from Doris’ head.  Her carefully tended tresses had been reduced to a ragged crop of bristles lacking any semblance of style.  She looked a bit like a refugee from a concentration camp.  Doris would have freaked out if she had beheld her radically altered appearance at this moment.  Mercifully, there were no mirrors in the room.  

The red headed acolyte switched on the clippers.  Their loud humming filled the room.  Doris bowed her head in submission.  She knew from watching Barb’s shearing what was coming next.  The assistant placed the clippers on my wife’s forehead and drove them back into her shortened hair.  A stream of short dark hairs fell from the blades onto Doris’ face and shoulders.  When she reached the back of her head there was a narrow furrow straight down the middle-kind of a reverse Mohawk.  The helper returned the clippers to Doris’ forehead, slightly to the left of center this time, and made another pass down her head.  She repeated this process until the top was reduced to a uniform length about one-quarter of an inch.  The acolyte now turned her attention to the side of my wife’s head. 
She clipped around her ears and down the back until every remaining hair stood at the same short length-about a quarter of an inch.  At last she switched off the clippers.  Doris extended her arm from beneath the cloth and tentatively rubbed her hand across her freshly cropped head.

“How short did you cut it?” my wife asked.

“The same as your sister,” was the reply.  “I used the number two attachment.”

“Can you cut it shorter?” Doris inquired.

“I can use the zero attachment if you like,” the acolyte informed her, “but that won’t leave you any hair at all.”  It was obvious that blonde barber was reluctant to go any farther, but Doris would not be dissuaded.

“Then go ahead with the zero,” Doris demanded.  

“Okay, if that’s what you want,” her hairdresser answered

I couldn’t believe what she was saying.  The woman who had resisted short hair for so long was now demanding that her head be shaved.  Once I recovered from my shock, I understood what my wife was up to.  In a few weeks, after the first round of chemo, Barbara would be completely bald.  Doris wanted to show her sister she had nothing to fear.  I had to admire her bravery.  

The assistant changed the attachment covering the blades and returned the clippers to the top of Doris’ forehead.  This time the barber would make sure that Doris’ haircut was much shorter than her sister’s.   She resumed the shearing, guiding the clippers over her crown and around the sides, cutting my wife’s hair to a microscopic length.  What started as a fairly brief buzz cut was reduced to a length that would pass inspection at a Marine boot camp.  My wife sat patiently during the second clipping.  She kept her eyes tightly closed as if she couldn’t bear to watch.  The barber passed the clippers over her head again and again, ensuring that no stray hairs escaped the hungry blades.  Finally she was done.  She switched off the motor.  Doris opened her eyes and smiled wearily, at the end of her ordeal.

The white cloth that covered Doris’ shoulders was now almost completely coated with clippings from her head.  Her ears stood exposed.  Bare scalp gleamed through the short dark stubble on her crown.   I barely recognized my wife.  Except for her familiar brown eyes, she looked like a totally different woman.

The red headed acolyte now took over, brushing the hairs from Doris’ face and removing the cloth from her neck.  Doris unsteadily rose to her feet.  She looked as though the experience had left her emotionally drained.  As soon as Doris stood erect Barb embraced her.   The two women sobbed as they rubbed each other’s head.  “Sis, you look so beautiful,” Barb sobbed.  

“But not as beautiful as you,” Doris replied.  Once again the room erupted with cheers and applause.

When at last a semblance of order returned to the room, the priestess stood between the two shorn sisters with one long arm wrapped around each.  “Ladies, what we have witnessed here tonight is a rare display of true sisterhood.  Let us continue to celebrate their courage and love.  Now it’s time to party.”

Someone began playing dance music on the stereo and everyone started shouting and laughing at once.  I resumed my position behind the bar and started pouring drinks at a rapid rate.  It was nearly half an hour before Doris found her way to my side.  “Well, Brian,” she asked coyly, “what do you think?”

“Sweetheart, I think you are one amazing woman,” I answered honestly.

“Yes, I already heard that, stupid,” she chided me.  “I want to know what you think of my new haircut.”  She looked at me expectantly, expecting a negative reply.

“I’ve never seen you look more lovely,” I told her.

“You really mean that, don’t you?” she said with genuine surprise.

“I think you look incredibly sexy with your sort haircut,” I confessed.

Doris glanced down.  The unmistakable bulge in my pants and confirmed that I was telling the truth.  “Hmmm.  Think you could find someone else to take over as bartender?” she said with a seductive wink.

“I think that can be arranged,” I eagerly replied.

Minutes later we slipped away from the party and tiptoed to the guest bedroom.  It seemed rude to abandon Barbara in her hour of triumph, but amid the celebration we doubted that we would be missed.  Doris and I needed to make up for weeks of abstinence.  I yanked off her slacks and unbuttoned her blouse as she undid my belt and opened my zipper.  “My, my, look at that,” she said as she stroked my engorged penis.  

“Be careful, it might go off,” I cautioned.  

We dove between the sheets.  “I want to be on top,” she said, rolling astride my hips.  

“So that’s how it’s going to be now,” I remarked as she eased her vagina around my throbbing member.  

“Yes, and you better get used to it mister,” she declared as she rode up and down my shaft with rare abandon.  Never had she made love this aggressively.  Apparently the loss of her long hair had liberated her libido.

I lay on my back looking up at my wife with only a dark shadow of her long locks remaining.  I admired the curve of her head and the graceful shape of her neck.  I reached my hands up and massaged her exposed head as we continued to rock in unison.  The smooth hard surface of her naked scalp beneath my fingers was more than I could stand.  It was only a moment before I exploded inside her.  She felt me tremble and heard my exclamation.  She continued rocking a minute longer and then pulled away as she felt me subside.  We snuggled together and I rubbed her head some more.  

How long would Doris keep her head shaved, I wondered?  Whatever the time, I was determined to enjoy every minute.