The Golden Scissors

A barber's shop, on a quiet street, in a ancient city, a long time ago.

The proprietor was a master of his craft; the whole city knew of his prowess. His fingers, they said, moved faster than the wings of Hermes' sandals, and his scissors, sharper than any known to man, were a gift from the Gods themselves.

It was an afternoon so hot and still that heat waves were the only movement in the streets. The citizens stayed indoors, sleeping on cool stone floors. The Barber and his apprentices pressed damp rags to their foreheads. The shop was empty. This was rare, but rarer still was it to see people outside in the heat of a day like this one.

Yet out of the sweltering sunshine came a tall, gaunt woman with her head swaddled in white cloth. Sweat beaded from her skin like condensation on smooth marble. The cloth covered her whole head. It covered her eyes.

The Blind Woman said, "I am looking for He who bears the gold scissors of Hephaestus."
The Barber said, "I am He."
She nodded. "I have something to ask from you, though I fear I ask too much. For your work, you will be handsomely recompensed."
The Barber said, "What is it that I can do for you?" for he could not fathom that it could possibly be so difficult.
The Blind Woman said, "First, your apprentices must leave. They must not come back until we are finished."
The Barber nodded to the boys. They shuffled out, reluctantly, into the hot street, staring at the Blind Woman in bemusement. Then they were gone.
She continued. "I want you to cut my hair. But you must use the gold scissors, and you must only look at me through a mirror. That is very important. You must not look at my hair, and you must be very careful when you cut it."
The Barber responded, "Of course," though his face betrayed the questions he was plagued with. She sensed this.
"Do not be afraid. But once I remove the cloth from my head, you must work quickly and until the job is complete. You will be well rewarded."

The Barber sat her down on a wooden chair, facing a large mirror. He took the golden scissors in his hand.  The Blind Woman began to unravel the cloth. "Remember, look not at me, nor my hair, but at my reflection. Your life depends on it." With that, the Barber saw why her hair had been hidden, and her eyes.

The Woman's eyes were tight shut, but she was not blind. And her hair was made of live snakes.

Medusa, they called her. Medusa.

Had the Barber any fear, he betrayed it not. He kept his gaze fixed on the glass. His hands were steady. And though the snakes writhed and snapped, he looked not into their eyes, nor did he succumb to their venom. Eyes on the mirror, his fingers gently took the snakes, one by one, and with scissors forged by Zeus's blacksmith, they were decapitated, deftly. Blood oozed from their open necks and splashed onto the pale stone.

When he was finished, The Barber wiped the blood tenderly from the Woman's neck. Then he saw the tracks of tears that had rolled down her checks. He saw the spot of blood on her lip from where she'd bitten down in silent agony.

 "Open your eyes," he said.

She opened them, slowly, wincing at the bright light from the street outside. In the mirror he met her gaze, and she turned him not into stone. Her eyes were full of pain and sadness. His hand rested on her shoulder. There must be no soul in the world lonelier than she, he thought. She who turns all those she sees into stone.

"Thank you," she said, tears flowing from her eyes, closed once more. She stood and wrapped her head back up in the long shroud of cloth. From her dress she drew a small sack, heavy with gold pieces, and pressed it into his hand.

"No," said the Barber. "These scissors were gifted to me by the Gods. It is they whom you should recompense. Take this bag to the temple that it may be an offering."

The Woman smiled through her tears, thanked him once more, and left the shop.

After she had gone, the Barber, smiling, turned to sweep the snakes heads from the floor.

In their place were emeralds, glinting in a dark pool of blood.