David Price never gazed at his reflection. He’d enter the bathroom; head bowed, and with shallow eyes find the shower cubicle, the pallid bar of soap. The heat of water teased his flesh, but in his own private slumber he’d remain, unaware of the world; unaware of himself. Thick fingers buttoned up a crumpled shirt. The square mirror stared at cold, averted eyes. He felt for the tap, let the stream spill quickly into his palm, and with that threw his hand through a rust of tangled hair, patting down wild locks, pressing them into submission.
  The route to work kept him in isolation. He walked through the park, keeping close to the thick trees, shuddering as the wind teased their leaves, made them whistle. At the end of the field, the larger world awaited and he reluctantly opened the gate, placed one foot on the heaviness of the ground. Here, in the street, his eyes were forced to withdraw. So many mirrors, he saw, staring from the curve of car windows, the tall reflections of modern office buildings. They all beckoned to him. They all bid him come meet himself; come acknowledge the reality of his existence. He resisted, of course, not to hold on to his dreams (for how could illusions keep a man living!), but because inside, he knew who he was. He was David Price. A man who looked inward. A man who shunned the reality of outside life. Only through his own self could he be. Only thus could he maintain his existence; a simple form dwelling in his own here and now, not acknowledging failure, not acknowledging who he was.

“David! His boss’s voice boomed from the backroom.
  “I’m here, Mr Jenkins.”
  The curtain rustled. From inside, he could hear the beat of music, the clatter of bucket and mop. Mr Jenkins emerged, throwing the curtain aside.
  “David!” He smiled. His left hand gripped a fresh mug of coffee. “Everything’s waiting for you.” His lips kissed the thick brim. “The usual,” he declared. “The hair. The combs.”
  “The customers...”
  “Well, yes, that’s my job, David.” Mr Jenkins smiled again.
  “I’ll get started,” David said.

He dipped his hand into the darkness of the room, finding mop, soap, and bucket, everything by instinct. To add variety to his routine, he washed the sinks first, rubbing off yesterday’s smudges, stray clippings of blonde and brunette. Combs were dipped into the yellow of chemicals, their black legs rubbing against the glass of tinted bottles. In and out, in and out he made them go, and then he turned his attention downward. The floor was a carpet of leftovers; so soft to walk on. He swept up carefully, kneeling down to ensure he found all lengths, all colours. Black, yellow, brown, all went into the bucket. Occasionally, his hand stroked the stream of clippings, letting their soft sharpness prick his skin. He turned his back to Mr Jenkins then, avoiding the depth of his eyes.
  When he was done, his boss invited him to drink coffee, and the two would sit in mutual silence, enjoying their own thoughts before opening time. David’s eyes struggled past the steam of his mug. His boss’s eyes were sharp, emphasised by the thick frame of his glasses, the smooth wrinkles, like borders, running across the firm stretch of his forehead.
  Then the customers came. Blonde, brunette, shadow black.
  Snip-snip.
  “Smoother sideburns.”
  Snip. Snip-snip.
  David watched as best he could, trying not to get caught in the mirror’s gaze. While Mr Jenkins worked, David tended to waiting customers.
  “More tea? Coffee?”
  Snip-snip. Another carpet was forming.
  Some got tired of waiting, and left before the scissors graced their flesh, but others came, never leaving disappointed, their features heavier than before, bolder.
  Women. Men. Blonde. Brunette. And then, the end of the day came.
  “Sweep up what you can,” Mr Jenkins ordered. “Then lock up and you can go home.” His smile was stretched across his face, always heavy.
  “Sure thing, Mr Jenkins.”

It was Friday when the salesman came. The bell announced his arrival, but it was his shadow that stepped in first. A tall stretch of darkness, defined by the spill of sunlight behind. Then in came the sharp suit, the thin face, hair shining with the glint of his polished shoes.
  Mr Jenkins showed him to a chair while David watched.
  “A light trim,” the salesman smiled. “Just to tidy my golden locks.”
  Mr Jenkins nodded, prepared his hair accordingly. The comb found neat tufts of forest, curled leaves of deep yellow that floated to the floor.
  Snip-snip.
  The usual small talk began. As David tidied the backroom he tried to listen.
  “Busy week, you see. Clients everywhere.”
  “A traveller are you, sir?”
  The salesman laughed, his voice smooth and polite.
  “I make the fifty states my business!”
  David bent forward, pulled back the edge of the curtain. He could see into the mirror. The reflection of the smoothest smile.
  “So what’s your trade, sir?”
  Leaves of gold continued to fall.
  “I trade on reputation,” the salesman smiled. “On success. The key is to always have what people want.”
  “And what would that be, sir?”
  The salesman paused for a moment, then his fingers reached smoothly under the apron. His hand returned with a small item; a polished box, its silver as bright as his smile. He flicked the top open, the lid snapping back like a broken neck.
  “Cigarette?”
  Mr Jenkins reached for the offering.
  “And now, let there be light.”
  The salesman found a stick of tobacco with his lips. The lid closed, replaced with a smooth breath of fire that spouted from a hole at the top. He lit Mr Jenkins up before lighting his own, then he continued to talk.
  “Give people what they want,” he explained, “at a fair price. That’s how you earn your reputation.”
  Mr Jenkins brushed loose locks away from his brow. The apron was cast aside.
  “Reputation,” the salesman said again, and smoke rose as he stood to the full height of his suit. The silver box gleamed between his fingers.
  Golden locks. Goldie Locks. David laughed at his own joke, his eyes returning to darkness. From outside, there came the sound of payment; of money exchanged and numbers typed into the till. David watched until the salesman had departed, then he stepped out from behind the curtain.
  “End of the day, Mr Jenkins?”
  His boss nodded.
  “Clean up what you can, then have a good weekend.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  He smiled as he grabbed mop and bucket. The floor was a thin path of gold, and it was waiting just for him.

Before leaving, he stuffed what remained of the path in his pocket. Bits of gold teased his fingers as he walked. He dipped his digits into their warmth, playing with their silk as he neared home. They stirred slowly; it seemed, softly, pricking his tips in a gentle embrace. When he reached the front door and produced his key, strands were wrapped around his fingers, glistening like wedding rings.
  He shoved the key in the lock, turned it quickly. Then he headed straight for the bathroom.
  The remaining locks, he pulled from his pocket, placing them carefully on the edge of the marble-white sink. He brushed the rings slowly off his fingers, watched them fall into their haystack.
  The tap’s flow was a chilly rush. He splashed it quickly into the rust of his hair, keeping his head bowed. The weight of his locks began to sink, deep into his skull. He grabbed a fistful of gold. He rubbed it into himself, spreading the yellow path as best he could.
  “Reputation,” he grinned.
  Then he gazed into the mirror.
  The depth of the salesman’s blonde kept his eyes from meeting the rest of his face. His back straightened. Confidence overpowered the slouch of his shoulders.
  “I have what you need,” he smiled softly.
  The mirror’s gaze remained cold.
  “I have what you want,” he smiled again. His voice was growing louder; smooth as a salesman’s pitch. “The price is right,” he grinned. “David’s price is right.”
  His scalp twitched. The salesman’s curls were itchy. Both hands leapt to his head and he pushed them down, willed the blonde to sink in. But it did no good, for now he was scratching himself. Bits of yellow brilliance fell to the floor and his hair returned to rust.
  “Shit.” Not so loud; not so confident.
  He slumped onto the cold lid of the toilet bowl.
  “I trade on reputation,” he muttered, “on success.”
  And could he do that? Could he reclaim his share of the world if he stopped looking inward?

For some reason, he’d hoped for the salesman’s return. Perhaps a part of him wished to give back his locks. As he entered that Monday morning, a sense of dread pricked at his chest; for there on the floor lay what remained of the gold, of the path he had tried to follow. And now, he knew, that path would go to waste.
  “David?”
  His boss’s heavy voice cut through his thoughts.
  “You out there?” he called.
  “Yes, Mr Jenkins, I’m here.” David’s shoulders sank as he cast off his jacket, found the backroom’s darkness.
  “Just a small mess,” the voice boomed. “The hair.”
  David pulled back the curtain for the delivery of mop and bucket.
  “I’ll clear it up, Mr Jenkins,” he whispered. He received his instruments quickly.
  The trail was cleared, the combs promptly sterilised. David’s fingers dipped them slowly, down into the yellow of their solution. In and out, again and again he went, until the odour of disinfection stung his eyes. Then the customers came; blonde, brunette. But not gold, not success, not reputation.
  “Would you like more coffee?”
  Mr Jenkins talked to his clients, trimming their hair adroitly. Small talk; small lives, not what he wanted.
  And these little lives, they fell on the floor, shadows of shadows for him to clean. The usual trail was forming.
  One customer asked for hot chocolate. He tried not to talk to himself as he served them.
  By the end of the week, his mirror had grown cold. Mr Jenkins and he shared coffee to finish off, and then his boss, tugging his rusty lengths, offered to give him a trim. He had accepted. He had cleared up his clippings after closing time.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir.”
  “Damn it!”
  Mr Jenkins scratched his head, tried not to look too guilty.
  The young man shook his curls to and fro as he exited his car.
  “Today,” he muttered. “I just got the car today!”
  “Sir...”
  But a firm hand stopped his words.
  The young man kneeled, careful to keep his blazer from sweeping across the ground. He glanced at the red of his new car’s bonnet; how it connected, almost seamlessly, with the end of the ancient Ford.
  “I braked too suddenly, sir, I know. I should have been more careful.”
  “I’ll call insurance,” the young man said. “Get this sorted out.” His tone was more confident than his age should have allowed; an experienced voice of authority. His hand dove inside an inner pocket, withdrew a smart cell.
  “Some privacy,” he ordered. “Go back inside your shop, please.”
  Mr Jenkins obeyed. He closed the door.
  “David!”
  A bowed head emerged from the backroom.
  “Mr Jenkins,” he whispered. “What’s going on?”
  His boss’s thumbs pressed against one another, visibly trembling.
  “Car trouble,” he said. “Some hotshot kid with a brand-new sports car.
  David looked slowly outside.
  “He’s on the phone,” his boss sighed. “With insurance.”
  “What do you need me to do?”
  Mr Jenkins’ heavy eyes reflected panic.
  “I’ll invite him in,” he nodded to himself. “When he’s done.”
  David stared at him, awaiting orders.
  “I’ve cleared the backroom,” he began, “cleared the hair—”
  “Make coffee!” Mr Jenkins scratched his smooth scalp. “Coffee,” he said again. “I’ll calm him down. Talk him out of whatever insurance tells him.”
  He looked at David, who was returning to the backroom.
  “Two mugs,” he called after him. “Serve them to us, then back to work.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  David merged with the backroom’s shadows as the little bell rang.
  “Hey!”
  The young man walked in, visibly less angry.
  “Sir, I...”
  A chop of his hand for silence.
  “I just got off the phone, and you’re lucky. They’ll fix the front; put her back into shape.”
  Mr Jenkins nodded.
  “Well, cheer up, then.” He adjusted the golden rings on his fingers. “The jury finds you not guilty,” he smiled.
  Mr Jenkins relaxed. “I still feel bad,” he laughed, “about all this.”
  “No worries.”
  “No, please; let me offer you some coffee, at least.”
  David answered his call, emerging with two tall mugs. He offered the first to the young man.
  “Thank you.”
  His shallow eyes found the gold encircling long fingers; solid digits that seized the mug with a firm grasp. He followed the fingers, the gold, to the tanned face before him.
  “That’ll be all, David.”
  The heavy voice cut into his thoughts, and he bowed, averted his gaze.
  “Yes, sir.” And back to work he went.
  From inside the backroom, he could hear them talk. His boss’s heavy words met the smooth song of the young man’s tone, polite but firm. Confident.
  “So what’s your occupation?”
  Mr Jenkins smiled, and his arm took in the room with a single sweep. “Hairdresser, as you can see.”
  “Ah...I hadn’t noticed till now.”
  David watched the young man play with his locks, the tips curling lightly, stroking the rings on his fingers. 
  “Hey...” Mr Jenkins’ smile widened into a grin. “Would you like a free one?”
  The young man stared. His rings brushed past his hair; gold against gold.
  “A free haircut?”
  “Sure; for the damage to the car.”
  The young man smiled.
  “That would be compensation enough.”
  David watched as the customer was seated, peering carefully through the curtain.
  “So what’s your line of work, if you don’t mind me asking?”
  Mr Jenkins combed carefully, spraying a light mist upon blonde locks.
  “I’m a lawyer.”
  David stepped closer. Through the curtain, he glimpsed a rush of sunlight; shadows of water to cover the sunlight’s stream.
  “A defence attorney, sir?”
  The scissors opened; a jaw eagerly waiting.
  “No,” the man laughed. “Divorce.”
  Snip.
  The first fall of sunlight. The creation of a new path.
  “You’ll be surprised,” the lawyer began, “how many cases there are. Too many, you could say. Marriages just fall apart.”
  Snip.
  “Isn’t that a little...heartbreaking, sir?”
  The lawyer laughed. “I’m not married.” He laughed again, made Mr Jenkins laugh. Their sound, so smooth, fell like an unseen shadow with the curls; these puffs of golden smoke.
  “It’s not all bad,” the lawyer smiled. “Not always.”
  “Oh no?”
  Mr Jenkins flattened the top with more mist.
  “Some couples,” the lawyer explained, “want open love; free love, without the guilt of marriage.”
  He pointed at his reflection, smiling as his rings grinned back.
  “So they come to me. Couples who wish to be carefree again.”
  The trail of gold was slowly growing. David watched the feathers of sunlight fall.
  “That’s why they divorce,” the lawyer smiled. “Free love.”
  “Is that so, sir?”
  And the scissors’ jaw cut further into sunlight, the stream thinning, getting shorter, as its path fell to the floor. From the shadows, David watched the descent; the thickening of a new path to follow. He licked his lips.
  “That’s good enough,” the lawyer said. He glanced into the mirror, tilting his head this way and that. His blonde had been reduced to a pleasant sparkle; short but sweet. He nodded, satisfied. “Perfect.” He rose up and allowed Mr Jenkins to sweep loose curls from the apron’s shadow. “Perfect,” the lawyer said again.
  David stared as the man turned toward him, careful not to meet his gaze.
  And now, David thought, his hair was perfect. No longer a flowing stream, but still deep in its yellow shade; still glistening. The short length made the glint of his gold stand out so much more. It defined him. Like the smoothness of his voice. Like the gold on his fingers.
  The lawyer turned back to the mirror, drew himself closer. His fingers made light adjustments, tugging fringes left and right.
  “No charge; you’re sure?”
  Mr Jenkins smiled. “For the car,” he reminded him. “Just compensation.”
  “Indeed.” The lawyer extended his hand. Their palms met, firm and swift. Mr Jenkins found a card between his fingers.
  “For future reference,” the lawyer declared, “my card. You need a divorce, you call.”
  And with that, the pair laughed heartily as the lawyer turned to depart.
  “I’ll drop by another time. Same coffee. Same haircut.”
  And with that, he was gone, shadows of sunlight following.
  Mr Jenkins smiled.
  “David.”
  David’s hand peeled back the curtain.
 “End of the day, David.”

After extracting David’s promise to lock up his boss left. He had only the hair for company. And the mirrors. He began collecting up the path, brushing gold into the dustpan until it overflowed.
  David glanced at the greyness of the floor, and smiled. Still there remained a few curls of sunlight. Enough, he thought, to save; to take home. He drew down the weight of the shop window’s blinds. The sun’s pallid light gave way to the hum of shadows, and in this privacy he began. The dustpan he placed in the sink as he seated himself before the mirror. He bowed down to the golden path like a disciple, one hand plunging into its warmth, while the other felt for the hair gel.
  The rings came first; the shorter strands wrapped tightly around each finger. He rubbed the hair gel in, patted the strands down. The weight of gold sank into him.
  He smiled.
  “Till death do us part.”
  And the curled strands of sunlight smiled. He was careful not to let them unwrap as he felt for his prize. He had to be quick, he knew. Quick to apply the gel, quick to attach as many pieces as he could, before the gel dried. And so he worked swiftly, emptying the jar of its thick transparency. Short strands, long strands, all were the jigsaw pieces of his puzzle. They buried the stiffness of his rust; he felt his hair become a shadow, weighed down by the golden feathers spread throughout. A layer of brilliance began to harden upon his scalp. He applied what was left of the gel. Meagre drops caught golden streams, turned them into waves. And he let them drown him. He let the sunlight drown him.
  The dustpan was empty now, holding only shadows. He gazed at the warmth of the mirror.
  “The jury is out,” he smiled. “The jury is out on that one.” His face turned serious. His eyebrows, touched by the warmth of gold, frowned, deepened, just like his eyes.
  “No! That’s impossible!” He was talking to the judge now. Defending his own reputation as much as his client’s. “No crime has been committed, Your Honour. After all, fidelity is a point of view.”
  The grin of his rings concurred; and so too did the waves, the sunlight.
  “I rest my case,” he concluded, waiting politely for a response.
  But now the sun was setting, he could feel it. Going from hard to brittle. The rust underneath was begging for breath.
  He stared at the mirror desperately, not wanting to see himself. But his scalp was itching now, the gold had grown dull and the rust of his shade was choking, tingling now for the warmth of the air.
  His eyes moved down, found the tap. The sharp rush of water began to flow.
  “Shit,” he whispered.
  With that, he dunked his head under the stream, turning the knob as far as he could. Brittleness yielded to wetness. He heard the faint slap of sunlight; the flow of gold deserting him. Shaking off what remained, he straightened, glanced at the cold white of the sink. Already the brilliant locks were heavy with darkness, subdued by the rush of water, curling against themselves like shrivelled leaves. And the rings on his fingers; how tight they had become. He plunged his hand under the lukewarm rush, watched it twitch, trembling this way and that as the water spread its shadow.
  Divorce me, hon, David thought. The last trace of sunlight fell from his finger.
  As he bent forward to turn off the tap, the mirror found him. His eyes glared at the darkness of rust; the weight of his own wet locks. He grabbed a towel and rubbed himself all over, back and forth until the burden of water had drained.

Mr Jenkins blinked.
  “You want to clip their hair?”
  David gazed at the brim of his boss’s mug, his smooth shirt; anything but his heavy eyes.
  “Why now, David? Why the sudden request?”
  David straightened himself in his seat. He felt his eyes slinking away from his boss’s face.
  “I just...want to do a bit more,” he explained. “Not just clear up what’s left, sir.”
  Mr Jenkins nodded, sipping his brew slowly. He tried to smile.
  “You’re doing fine where you are. You’re exactly where I need you.”
  David felt the rust of his hair stand on end.
  “I just want to do more than clear the trail,” he whispered. “I want to create it.”
  And at that, he bowed his head.
  “What?” His boss’s voice was heavy; firm.
  David closed his eyes. Gold flashed through his mind; sunlight.
  “You’re where I need you,” Mr Jenkins said again. His heavy eyes didn’t want to understand.
  David, having already betrayed his secret, remained silent, unmoving. His boss explained something to him. He nodded. He felt the weight of each word.
  “You understand, David?” his boss demanded. “You’re where I need you to be.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  And with David’s submission, the work of the day began; mop and bucket.
  “The clippings first,” his boss reminded him, “then the backroom.”

Price came in early on Friday, clearing the clippings quickly, quietly. Then he sat in the barber chair. He glanced into the mirror.
  “Hello,” he whispered. His smile was shy; a barely discernable shadow. Under the mirror’s cold gaze, he reached for the scissors. The chill of their open jaw found his scalp, bit into the rust.
  Snip.
  And the shadows of brown fell, a silent unseen plummet. The cut had been smooth; even. It was enough to encourage him further.
  Snip. Snip-snip.
  He drove the scissors into himself again and again, his eyes observing the fall of shadows through the mirror’s indifferent lens. “Smooth,” he sighed. The front of his scalp was beginning to show.
  A few more cuts here and there and his smile grew wide. He wiped short curls of rust from his eyes. His head felt lighter; not so heavy. The mirror reflected his handiwork. And what did he see? What difference was there to behold from a listless gaze? Enough, David thought. More than enough. He tilted his head this way and that, holding the mirror’s glare.
  “I’ve done it,” he smiled shyly. “I’ve reshaped myself.”
  He knew how to trim his own shadow. How easy it would be to trim sunlight! To take away just the right lengths of the stream; enough to create his own golden path. Bowing his head, he jumped out of the chair. A small laugh escaped his lips.
  Soon, the customers would come. Blonde, brunette; sunlight. He could try something, during Mr Jenkins’ lunch break; yes, while his boss was out.
  He spun the scissors round his finger, struck a pose, cool and comfortable. His eyes gazed at the jagged trail upon the floor.
  “David?”
  David turned, finding his boss’s grin, heavy as usual.
  “What are you doing?”
  His lips fumbled for an excuse.
  “I came in early,” he mumbled. He placed the scissors back on the sink.
  Mr Jenkins nodded slowly. “Okay,” he replied, smiling. “Okay.”
  He sniffed once, then closed the door behind him. “Friday again, then.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  David stepped away from the sink, treading carefully on locks of rusted shadow.
  “The backroom,” he began uncertainly.
  “Yes, yes, David, go. Then coffee.”
  Mr Jenkins waved him away politely. Then:
  “Have you cleared the floor already?”
  David turned around, his eyes finding the trail. And how thin the shadows looked; how fragile, as if sinking into themselves, into a darkness too shallow to be noticed. That was why his boss had asked, he realised. Because he saw nothing.

  “David?”
  He emerged slowly from the back.
  “I’m going now, David. Back in half an hour.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  David watched as Mr Jenkins hunched forward, fingers grasping the sign that welcomed business. He twisted it once, reversing its greeting. “Take your break when you want,” he smiled, not bothering to turn round, and with that, he was gone, the door slamming behind him.
  David grabbed the dustpan, clearing the shadows of a meagre trail. Bits of brunette; even grey; faded white. He was listening to his boss’s footsteps, waiting for them to fade. He mumbled something to himself; the remains of a whisper.
  “...sunlight,” he smiled. “My sunlight.”
  And a golden yellow seemed to approach the window, almost brushing past his arm as he reached for the door, reversing his boss’s work.
  Gold is welcome. Sunlight is welcome.
  He repeated his thoughts aloud with sudden adamance, attempted to catch the stream; the glorious stream that filtered softly in. Shadows met his efforts, dark stretches that found his fingertips, sank into the flesh. He withdrew his arm with a quiet grunt.
  “Shit,” he sighed.
  A tap on the window. Something solid.
  David’s eyes moved slowly.
  “Are you open?” a voice demanded. David watched the shadows part, giving way to the voice’s fire. A soft hand. A firm push upon the door.
  “Yes,” David managed. “We’re open.”
  And in stepped the heaviness of feet, tall shoulders, firm cheeks.
  “You’re open?”
  The woman brushed a length of herself from the side of her breast, pushing the blonde back toward her shoulders.
  David stared, felt the warmth of her voice. Here, was a stream. Not gold; not sunshine. For there was heat, he could feel, from everything about her, and from that heat came fire, a rush of it forming the shade of her locks.
  She faced him directly now and with firm impatience repeated her query.
  “You are open, yes? You can give me a trim?”
  His words, it seemed, had gone unheard, but her words sizzled, burned into him. He struggled to find his tongue.
  “Y-yes,” he whispered. “Yes, we’re open.”
  “Then please show me to a chair.”
  He did as he was told, letting her walk ahead of him. Her dark figure shone with the brilliance of her stream.
  David snuck behind her. He did his best to bring heaviness to his words.
  “What can I do for you?”
  His eyes found her own in the mirror.
  “I want shorter hair,” she replied. “Just above shoulder-length.”
  David swallowed, tried to grin.
  “That’s all?”
  The grey eyes narrowed.
  “A simple job. You can do that, can’t you?”
  “Yes, sir,” he replied, and his eyes looked away, down to the floor. He reached for the scissors, seizing them from the sink. The woman sighed as she waited.
  “I’ll start with the back,” he mumbled.
  “Fine.”
  And his fingers approached the first lengths of the stream. He felt his digits twitch. He saw the glare that he was about to touch. And the heat of its shade, what if it burned him? What if fire destroyed gold, sunlight, everything? Would he survive? Or would the stream swallow him; reduce him to shadows of ashes?
  He squinted. He tried not to breathe too hard.
  Then he grasped a length of the stream, watched how the strands curled at his touch.
  Snip.
  And so the flames began to fall. The shadows of heat that would soon become a path.
  He cut further. Curls of flame floated down, brushing the edges of his fingers.
  “Oh...”
  The heat left its mark; streaks of its touch that tingled.
  The grey eyes interrupted his thoughts.
  “That’s enough,” she declared. “You can trim the sides now.”
  He nodded, and with ease the scissors found the left side of her stream. Its jaw opened. Yellow brilliance gleamed against cold, hungry steel.
  Snip.
  And down, down the flames went, curling always, finding the path.
  David breathed in deeply. His feet, he knew, were treading on heat; on sizzling curls that were his to touch. They would never consume him. Here was the construction of his path; a glorious path; a path that would define him. He cut further, deeper, so desperate to be licked by the flames.
  “Ow!”
  The sharp voice made him jump. He dropped the scissors.
  “I-I’m sorry,” he began, but it was no good. She jumped up from her chair and slapped him.
  “Look!” she seethed. Her voice was deep, boiling. “Look what you’ve done!”
  David’s eyes nervously found the side of her head; the loose curls he had almost set free. They were clinging to the woman’s scalp and underneath he saw a depth that made him cringe.
  “What’s wrong with you?!”
  No fire. No gold. Only flesh; pink scarlet now exposed.
  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he said it again, and again. But his eyes refused to find the floor. So bare the flesh looked, so diseased, riddled with spots of yellow.
  A second slap made him hang his head, eyes closed. He heard heavy footsteps retreating; the sound of the bell crying its tune of farewell. He dropped to his knees, feeling for the fire.
  “David?”
  He opened his eyes.
  His boss’s shadow smothered the clippings under his fingers. He felt the heat extinguish.
  “What’s going on?” Mr Jenkins demanded. He stepped slowly toward him, feet crushing the shade of the path. “I asked you a question, David.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  It was a whisper; almost all he could manage. He struggled to get to his feet.
  “I made a mistake,” he began, “with her. I cut too much.”
  Mr Jenkins kicked at the meagre flames. “This is your handiwork, is it? And the girl—the one who ran out holding the side of her head?”
  David felt himself nod.
  The heaviness of his boss’s face flushed. His thick brow became a wrinkled mass of weight. With a trembling fist, he reached for his glasses, his fingers spreading like stiff pincers.
  “David...”
  And for the first time, he saw his boss’s eyes as they were. Sharp, thin beams that stared right through him, buried in stiff sockets, borne as if an honourable burden.
  “David. I’m disappointed,” he whispered. “I’m disappointed!”His voice found heat so quickly, setting the air aflame, but David wasn’t listening. His eyes remained on the black leather boots; his boss’s feet. Two shadows crushing his path, remaining like arrogant trespassers.
  “Tread softly,” he implored.
  The boots wouldn’t listen. Heavy as their owner’s voice, they remained, their gait stiff with the weight of aggression.
  “You will clean up your mess.”
  David nodded, feeling each word press upon him.
  “Tomorrow, you will remain in the backroom, and at no point will you have contact with the customers.”
  “Y-yes, sir.”
  “I will serve the coffee. You will remain in the back. This will be your routine until I deem otherwise. Until I decide whether to keep you or not. And you will go home for your lunch break, is that clear?”
  David felt his throat burning. He gasped, tried to reply.
  “David!”
  His head jerked; a forced nod that seized his sorrow, jiggled it back and forth.
  Mr Jenkins licked his lips.
  “We are closed for today.” His eyes narrowed, caught David in their beam. “Clean up your mess.”
  And with that, the boots kicked once, twice at the trail. David winced as he watched it crumble, becoming nothing more than bits of shadow.
  “Tread softly,” he said again, “please tread softly,” but his boss ignored his words. Under his gaze, David found the brush and dustpan, and he knelt down by the floor, began sweeping up his precious locks. The fire was gone now; heat had turned to dust. For his boss had crushed their shade, and even their shadow was soiled with the dirt of his boots.
  David let some of the clippings brush past him, hoping to feel a last rush of their stream, but now everything was cold, greasy. And the mirrors stared with flat, hollow eyes.
 
  When he was done, Mr Jenkins locked up and watched him depart. He kept his head bowed and tried to breathe as the tears gushed. He tried his best to remain silent, but his tongue began to talk and with that, anger arose in silent whispers. He shoved fingers into the mocking warmth of an empty pocket, hoping to find the trace of a path.
  When he reached home, his pocket had gone cold. He stumbled into the bathroom and desperately searched the bin for the smallest sliver. The lawyer; the salesman; surely there was more. And when his search yielded only further sorrow, he found himself forced to reach for his own bitter rust. For here was hair, at least. Here were the clumps of shadow. His fingers gripped at the lengths of a meagre forest, lighter than air.
  “Please,” he sobbed. “Please...”
  The mirror found him. For the first time, he stared directly at its offerings. If he could find himself by looking outward. But the mirror hid no truths; it only revealed his bareness. And here he was, the sobbing boy with shallow eyes, with hair softer than shadows.
  “Who am I?” he asked. “Who is David Price?”
  Silence responded to his query, more painful, more pervading than a scream.
  He buried his face in his hands. A bitter laugh; even they had gone cold. He pressed his forehead to the chill of his reflection.
  There is no warmth, he thought. There is no warmth but the stream of fire. He stepped back, kicked weakly at the sink.
  And what remained of the fire; of the path he’d been forced to destroy?
  “I don’t know,” he said aloud. “I-I don’t know.”
  And he shivered against the glass, winced as it rattled.
  Fire can be restored, it whispered now.
  David blinked.
  One stream can restore another.
  “I...”
  Price backed away from the mirror and felt it follow him. His reflection, he saw, was smiling. He wasn’t.
  Recover your losses, the mirror whispered. Arrive early tomorrow, and reclaim the pieces of your puzzle.
  David tried not to mutter. He drew a deep breath to collect his thoughts.
  “Wh-what...”
  His finger reached for his smiling shadow.
  Wash your hair, the shadow laughed. Wash the path and try again.
  He shook his head and bent forward, hoping to touch warmth.
  “David...”
  His voice was heavier than Mr Jenkins’.
  His fingers found the tap, twisting. A sharp roll; a spill of thick heat. He let his fingers plunge deep into the stream.
  Wash your hair, David. The mirror’s shallow eyes found his own. Wash your hair!
  David whimpered. Never before had the mirror been so open. So direct. But its indifference, he somehow knew, remained, and as he examined the shadow’s smile, a rush of anger seized his fist.
  The mirror cracked like a fragile glacier, smooth lines spreading away from his punch, away from the centre.
  “Fuck you!”

 He walked quickly through the haze of the morning mist, finding the path by instinct, breathing in the thick fumes of the air. On the other side of the gate, the grey shadows of the street awaited; a narrow stretch of the world not yet awoken.
  He trod softly past cars and flickering street lamps, daring himself to gaze at the windows of shops and offices. As he found the familiar scissors and comb he stopped, just for a moment, to take in the sharp bitter light of a lifeless morning. The sun had yet to rise, but the shadows, it seemed, were wrapped in their own light, thicker than curling drops of mist.
  David pushed the key through the dampness of the lock, heard it click. The door slowly opened at his touch.
  “Mr Jenkins?” He whispered loudly. He had to be certain he was alone. “Sir? I’ve come early.”
  Silence. Shadows.
  “Good,” he said to himself. He pushed the door fully open, nodding as the bell sang its song, and rushed immediately to the wastebasket, pulled the plastic bag out. He held its blackness up to the meagre light and smiled. There were the curls he needed; crumpled, dull, but soon to be restored.
  He emptied the bag into the sink, watching the flow of a broken stream. “One stream can restore another,” he whispered. He reached for the tap; the water gurgled. He plugged the drain quickly as the rush of warmth came, and reaching into the pool, he gripped his fire, squeezed the grease, the dirt, out of its shade, squeezed again and again.
  “David?”
  His hands froze under the rush of heat. He dared not turn round. He could feel the confident figure walking toward him.
  “Trying to be one of us, David? Trying to trade on reputation?”
  A pleasant pling followed the salesman’s words; the sweet crackle of tobacco David turned off the tap.
  “Look at me, David.”
  He did.
  The salesman grinned. His soft curls spread out from behind the gentle smoke.
  “S-sir?”
  “Sorry I haven’t been around, David.”
  “I-I’d hoped you’d return.”
  The salesman nodded. “Busy week, you see. Clients everywhere.” He laughed, a tune smooth as silk. Its echo tinged the smoke with yellow shades.
  “You want to be like us, David?”
  David turned, following the golden sound of a sudden song.
  “Yes,” he said. “You’re successful.”
  The lawyer smiled as he examined his yellow rings. And how the shadows bowed to their shade, glistening, like a stream of liquid sunlight, a rush of golden warmth! He laughed, and so too did David.
  The salesman stepped forward and stood next to him.  “We trade on reputation, David,” the salesman smiled. He leaned against the lawyer’s shoulder, feeling the flow of his locks. “And what do you trade on?” he asked. A polite grin spread like light across his face.
  The lawyer put his hand on David’s shoulder.
  “You trade on us, don’t you? We become you, you become us. From gold to sunlight.”
  “And now,” the salesman chirped, “you’ve discovered fire.  Fire that you can play with.”
  He went to the sink and his smooth hand grabbed a fistful of blonde, strangled the water out of its shade. Soon the bitter tone of its warmth was gone. Soon the brilliance of heat began to show.
  “There!”
  David reached for the flattened strands and slowly began to uncurl them, eager to feel the touch of fire once more. He looked into the mirror. He could feel the warmth of its stare awaiting the stream, eyeing the figures behind him.
  The salesman took a deep puff of his cigarette. A cloud of yellow muffled his words.
  “Try it on, David. You’re one of us; try it on for size.”
  His words were becoming a fading waltz, barely a whisper.
  “You’re one of us,” he smiled again. “One of us.” And the lawyer took up his cheerful chant, and David watched the pair fade like shadows, into the deep smoke.
  “Wait!”
  He rushed forward, hoping to grab gold, sunlight.
  “Wait...”
  And the smoke became a shadow of shadows; a bitter stream of darkness fed only by a meagre flow of light.
  David turned, glanced into the mirror.
  Try it on for size.
  He closed his eyes, obeyed, slapping the strands of warmth upon his head. He spread the flow of the stream, parting it carefully, evenly, smiling as it hugged him. He could feel the warmth pressing upon him, trying to get past the rust and into his scalp. His reflection was starting to glow, deepening his features. He laughed as he added more, more of this heat to the dull rust of his head. He would bury this shadow of a shade. He would become a definition. And what would that be? He now wondered. What identity would be shaped from this new, solid meaning?
  Sunlight, the mirror whispered. Fire. The death of mediocrity.
  Encouraged, he continued his game, drowning himself in wave after wave of heat. The yellow lengths were rushing, he knew, flowing upon his scalp, but as he leaned forward the stream began to collapse.
  “No...”
  The lengths of better lives were falling, slipping off the bumps of his scalp. The rust underneath, the arid soil, began to grow once more.
  “No.”
  And he could not use the gel, this time. For the connection had to be pure; intimate. He glanced in the mirror, and with careful hands brushed the remaining locks into the sink. He smiled as he watched them fall, twisting upon themselves like golden feathers.
  “David,” he said aloud. His eyes met his shadow’s reflection. “David, David.”
  He would not play with fire now. He would become fire; the pure essence of an identity truly defined. Only now did he see the error of his games. He had tried to bury the rust of himself, and the merging of gold and darkness had resulted in only a shadow. For if gold merged with his rust was it not corrupted? And if sunlight and rust combined, was not sunlight corrupted?
  He felt for the chill of the scissors.
  His identity was only buried, not discarded. Its darkness became a shadow, spreading throughout the light of the stream, a bitter sickness. And so his own self became a hindrance. His shallow self, of which there should be not a trace!
  David inspected the dark corners of his shade, checking for loose strands; for loose flames of the stream. There were none. Without a second glance, he opened the scissors’ jaw. So hungry it was, as it plunged into his forest, its chill biting him over and over, making him shiver.
  Snip-snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.
  David felt the forest’s meagre trees fall. With delight, he laughed, shook his head free of rusty shadows.
  From the sink, he felt the stream glow. The fury of its gold began to crackle.
  “Fire,” he murmured. And again he laughed with delight. “Fire!”
  For there was smoke coming from the heat of the waves, a curve of gold thicker than shadows. The stream was starting to burn, and he would have to be very quick now; would have to strip himself bare.
  Snip-snip-snip. Snip-snip-snip.
  He felt the shallowness of his presence fall. His scalp curled, almost, at the pleasant chill of the air.
  Eager now to be done with it all, his free hand grabbed a fistful of fire. He kicked at the dirt trail that had formed at his feet. The strands sizzled with a shade deeper than sunlight. He felt the rush of the stream burning its way into him, and his scalp gulped at the flow of each lock.
  “More,” he cried. And his voice, he could hear, had become deeper; more defined. The weight of the stream increased; he felt its flow becoming a pressing wave. Smokey curls of gold formed in his eyes, overwhelming him.
  “This is me,” he declared, pointing at the mirror’s deepening shade. “This is me you’re talking to.” The glow of his reflection smiled. He rubbed the heat of his new self further into his scalp.
  And then the odour came. Subtle at first; a meagre scent, too intimate to be familiar. He closed his eyes as he heard a crackle. The yellow of his mind burned so brightly that he began to wince. His hands leapt to his head. His fresh scalp was suddenly sharp with heat.
  “No...”
  He massaged desperately, but already, he could feel the fire fading. It was too much, he suddenly realised; a glow too intense for his own good. The flames were consuming each other, burning themselves out. The flow of the stream was draining.
  “No!”
  He shook his head to the rhythm of sharp sobs. He fell to the floor.
  And he didn’t hear the bell’s tune. And he didn’t see the concern on his boss’s face.
  “David?”
  His fingers struggled to the edge of the sink’s warmth, pulling down the remaining waves of dead fire. The ashes of heat fell, and he watched them blend with the rusty shadows.
  Mr Jenkins threw his coat on the nearest chair. He strolled quickly forward.
  “David? David! What’s wrong, David?”
  And the boy gazed at the floor. What a mess his trail had become—a heap of ashes and shadows. He touched the bareness of his head and shivered. From inside himself, he felt his eyes go blank.
  “David!”
  “Who am I?” he asked, and the voice was so strange to him. An alien tune uttered with the help of thick, alien lips. He repeated the query again and again, unable to look inward; to find even a shadow of his own self. He had played with fire. He had laid himself bare. And now, there was nothing left to call his own. Everything had burned.
  “David! David! David!”
 
  He heard the vagueness of a name, felt thick fingers grab the brittle shape of his shoulders. Someone shook him back and forth, using the strange name again and again. A distant voice addressed an identity he could no longer see, no longer feel. David Price wasn’t in him anymore. He was a broken mirror of shadows, succumbing to the ashes of others. The realisation made him gasp, and with that he plunged his fingers deep into the broken path.
  “What’s wrong, David?”
  Blonde, brunette; all burnt; all shadows. He searched through the clippings of distant lives; myriads of forgotten ghosts. And he had wanted them so badly; he had wanted the shadows of lives that didn’t exist. But now the bareness of his skull was upon him and like a desperate man entombed he would keep digging. He would claw through the dirt of others. Somewhere, he would find his fragments. He would find his shadow.
  “David, what are you doing?!”
  Again, the alien name. With a listless shrug, he gave in to its call.
  “I’m digging,” he replied with a whisper. “Till I find what’s mine.”
  And what that was, he didn’t know. But in this pile, he lay. In its shadows, he would find himself.
  And all across the room, mirrors stared, their gazes as hollow as their truths.
  People see what they want to see, they said. They never see themselves.