Cut and Color

by David Gray

                                           

“What do you want to talk about today, hon?” I ask, holding their second foreleg and combing the golden
hair. Their claws prickle on my palm, sharp but not breaking my skin. I locked up the salon early and
drew the shades, so we won’t be disturbed. The news people are everywhere, trying to get a glimpse of
one of our new space friends, but I’m not having any of it. This is their appointment and damn it all, I’m
going to treat them like I do all my clients: with my full attention. Everybody deserves a relaxing day at
the salon, even someone with eight hairy legs.

They clack and buzz somewhere in the area that must be their mouth, and soon the translator box says, in
a flat but perfectly understandable monotone, “Please explain the word me.”

 

Their eyes, all six of them,gaze at me, unblinking, but I think I see some curiosity in them. Or maybe not. It’s so hard to tell.

I wiggle around in my chair, trying to get more comfortable. I have eight legs to trim, after all, so we’ll have lots of time to sit and talk. I lay their leg down on my thigh, grab the scissors, and start snipping.

They seem to like a neat edge, like classic bangs, at least as far as I can tell. The past two times they’ve visited, this big spider hasn’t been too free with their emotions, if they even have any emotions. That translator box sure doesn’t give any hints.

“The word me, eh? That’s a tricky one, sugar.” I wait a moment for the translator box to catch up. “There are so many other people in the world—human people, that is—who know more about that than I do. Are you also talking to a philosopher? Or a psychologist? Or a poet?”

I’m flattered, really I am. Enjoying it, actually, ever since I got that letter from the President, but I still
can’t imagine why this alien race chose little-ole-me to be part of their first contact. A hairstylist way out
in the sticks of Oklahoma, helping to represent the entire human race. Who would have thought?
“Yes, this collective is talking to a communicator of words,” they answer. “But this collective also wants
ideas from a groomer.”

Groomer! I love that word. The translator always uses it to describe me, and I haven’t had the heart to
correct them. It’s so much how a spider would see my job, an earth spider, that is...but I have to watch
myself. I fell into that trap on our first visit. I was terrified the entire time, treating them like an overgrown
tarantula, afraid to go near them, but they’re not at all like that once you get to know them.

Where to start? Maybe something easy. I ask, “Do you have a name?” At this moment, I realize I didn’t
ask this before, during either of our previous visits. It’s always been this body and this collective, and I
focused mostly on my job and answering questions about living on Earth, all the while battling back my
ingrained fear of spiders. Frankly, I’m only just now seeing them as a person. It’s shameful, I know, but
there it is. I’m only human. 

“Not like a human name,” they answer. “This body has a function. Today, this body is for communication.
On the ship, this body is for food generation and disposal. The designation changes when needed.”

I smooth their hair with my fingers when I finish the trim. It’s so soft, such a contrast to the glossy shell-
like plates covering the rest of their leg. I force myself not to laugh—they’re like a knight in armor wearing a feather boa, and maybe that’s close to the truth. The scientists tell us these visitors aresomething like the soldiers or workers in ant colonies. I prickle at this. I refuse to think of this one as a
mindless ant. They’re a client who needs a good haircut, and a friendly ear.

“I’m ready for the next one,” I say, and they turn, lifting the next leg and placing it in my lap.
I figure the word me has something to do with the way we see ourselves, as individuals, but I haven’t
thought about any of this since school, many years ago. I soldier on, sticking with what I know. I’ll try to
draw them out on something personal. “Did you like the haircut I did last time? Did you like how you
looked when we finished?”

“It is more functional. Clean and tidy. It is good. Better than grooming on the ship.”

“Thanks, sugar,” I say. It’s always nice to know a client is pleased with their haircut, but that’s not exactly
what I was asking. However, it may be all they understand of what I asked. Their translator box is
probably stumbling over words like you and like...and me. This is a challenge, but I’m not giving up.
As I’m combing and cutting, I’m struck again by their hair. It really is lovely—soft and full—and it gives
me an idea. I won’t solve humanity’s communication challenges in a single day, here in my salon, but
maybe I can take a little step forward with my hairy new friend. A step beyond functional.

I finish the leg and set it down, and they start to turn, offering the next. I interrupt and say, “Let’s try
something different today.” I fetch my style sheets, filled with pictures of cuts and colors for clients who
can’t quite make up their minds. Blond to black and everything in between, and a variety of bright, trendy
colors.

I prop them up on the table, leaning against the mirror, and say, “Do you like any of these colors?”
They pause and the box chatters to them, then they say, “Please repeat.”

I rephrase the question to make it more practical. “I can change your hair to any of these colors. May I do
that?”

A longer pause, and they bounce on all eight legs in a way I haven’t seen before. Are they confused?
Excited? Intrigued? I have no idea until they ask, “Why? What is the function?”

With that, I know I have them. They didn’t say no immediately, and they’re clearly curious. 

“No function,” I say, “but it looks good. Makes you feel good. Tell me, what do these colors mean to you?”

They move up close and scrutinize each picture in turn. I take an enormous interstellar liberty and put my
hand on their back, stroking the silver fur on the closest shoulder. Everybody likes some TLC...I’m
certain of it. 

“Home sky is green, not blue like here. Food, like your trees and fruit, is green and yellow. Best fruit is
red or purple. People are gold and white, humans are pink and brown.”

“What do you like most about home?” I ask. “When you’re not working?”

They answer immediately, “Fire fruit. Hard to find, easy to eat. Red.”

“Red it is!” I can see it now: ruby red tufts on each foot, and if we have time, a red racing stripe down
their back. When I get done with them, they’ll be the talk of the collective.

* * *

“You brought someone with you!” I say a month later, as two spiders crawl off the transport for our next
scheduled visit. I’m embarrassed to say I was never quite sure that they were the same one each time they
visited. Isn’t it just like a silly human, still stuck at the stage where they all look the same to me.

Fortunately, this time I’m certain one of them is my regular partner—as they push through the throng of
reporters sweating in the summer heat, it’s hard to miss those furry red ankle warmers.

I was planning to suggest a perm this visit, but now I need to improvise something less ambitious, with
eight additional legs to add to the mix. I stall by asking, “Can I get you two something to drink?”

“Water, yes,” my regular partner says, “with some salt.” I dash to the kitchenette to get two bottles. The
bigwigs had briefed me on this, and it’s always been the same—slightly salty water—so I have plenty on
hand. The military brass also scolded me again about getting information on their ships and weapons, but
that’s not going to happen. I don’t know anything about that, and besides, these visits are about spending
time with my new friend. Friends.

They take the bottles in those short legs at the front, using the delicate fingers hidden under their claws,
and both say, “Thank you.” I suspect it’s a rote response, since my partner is still learning about you and
me and I, but I’m charmed by the sentiment. There’s nothing quite as sweet as a polite giant-spider-alien.

“How did the red hair work out?” I ask, then I realize that’s probably too colloquial. I add, “What did your collective say?” 

It might be my imagination, but they seem to be stepping higher, showing off those
luxurious red tufts every time they lift their legs.

“Fear, then anger, then shunning, then quiet,” they answer. I’m amazed...I remember getting the same
response when I first dyed my hair back in high school. We obviously have more in common with these
furry fellows than the experts realize.

My regular partner gestures with one of their first walking legs towards the new spider, saying, “This
body is also a food preparer.”

“Are they your friend?” I ask, then I realize they probably don’t know the term. But the translator finds
something they understand, because they don’t ask for clarification.

“These two bodies work together. Cooperate. Better with two. More efficient.”

“Sounds like a friend to me, sugar,” I say, then I ask the big question, hoping I know the answer. “What
can I do for your handsome friend?”

They both start tapping their front walking legs on the ground, quietly pounding out a rhythmic duet, and
there’s something about their eyes. An intensity. A focus. They’re excited...I’m almost certain.

The new spider says, “This body wants...” They stop and the tapping gets a skosh louder. The two of
them chitter at each other, saying, “...revising...starting again...” Something’s up. After a minute, the
new spider continues, “I want color, please.”

Exactly what I hoped! Now they get to make a small, personal choice for themselves, not for their
collective. I smile, even though they probably have no idea what a smile means, and offer, “Let’s look at
some options, hon. I bet you’ll look great in green, like the sky.”

I pat them on their furry back and lead them over to the wall, where I’ve pinned up all my style sheets at
spider-eye level. While they’re scanning through the options, I turn to my partner and advise, “You need a
touch up, sugar. I see some gold roots growing on your legs. Do you want to stay a redfoot, or do you
want to let your natural color grow out?”

They consider for a moment, holding up one of their forelegs, and answer, “Red is good. Red is good for
this body...revising...red is good for me.”

“Just between you and me,” I say, steering them to my station. “I have to agree. You look fabulous.”