The Bodyguard ("Caught" -- #18)

CAUGHT
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is getting a haircut. It troubles him because he doesn’t feel it’s appropriate to have an apron covering up his suit. He tries to tell this to the woman cutting his hair, but she won’t listen. She gently pushes him back into the chair and clips the plastic apron around him anyway. It’s for your own good she tells him. Besides, it’s the only way I can cut anyone’s hair. The bodyguard considers this.

When the woman touches his hair and says it’s good hair, he softens some. But then he catches himself, sits back bolt upright, sucks in air, and holds it. It is important to remain alert. He scans the mirrors and doorway. Good. They are alone. The woman tells him if he won’t keep still, she won’t be able to do his hair very well. As she says this, she takes his head and gently rotates it back to the center so he is staring into his own reflection. His lips have no expression whatsoever. Stiff as concrete. He is happy with their discipline, but gives no display of his satisfaction. He knows his place in the world. He knows how he should look.

This is when the woman does what she should not—when she tries to remove his sunglasses. His hand is quite a bit faster than she expects. It locks onto her wrist. Hard. And remains there. It’s a dark and glistening, primitive moment.

When at last he releases her, she makes no further effort to touch his glasses. She keeps herself busy and tries to disguise her nervousness by enumerating her son’s sports achievements. The bodyguard knows she is talking to him, but he can only hear the snip of her shears as she slices off small pieces of him. And anyway, the bodyguard does not like sports. As a child he could never do them very well. He had trouble. He was never enough there to make his body do what was needed. Plus, he was always worried people were watching him. Now he is the one doing the watching. Now he is the one in the mirror who cannot be seen.

A small smile forms on his lips at the thought of this.