I went to a barber. We had a language barrier, two aesthetics, and at least one person who did not know what he really wanted.
I walked out of there with a “clean-shaven head”. Instead of a “shaved head”.
As I saw the cutthroat razor heading to my head, I had a moment: This person that I don’t know - can kill me right now if he so chooses.
So I let him.
He shaved my hairline into a balloon of funky.
Straight, please. I said. Not so daring.
Every question was an effort.
Every time I wanted a change there was a tug of fear.
A razor at your throat does not mean your throat will get cut.
Of course, I know that. But I also did not feel that.
Without empathy, trust, and understanding for the other - the smallest of actions feels life-threatening.