I’m revising several essays I published in 2000–2001 on the late, but most likely unlamented, site known as Themestream. I will eventually post them for a limited time on this site before deciding what, if anything else, to do with them (Smashwords maybe?). And, yes, I own the copyrights to all the essays.
The following is an excerpt from an essay about a “hair-raising” experience (in 1989) titled “The Unkindest Cut”:
“You’re my next victim!” the woman shrieked, brandishing a pair of scissors a little too close to my nose. Yikes! I needed a haircut, not plastic surgery. I’d heard that Greta was a great stylist—and a little pricey. I hadn’t heard that she was also a little scary. I wanted to bolt, but I was desperate. My bangs had grown way past my eyes. I kept bumping into things and knocking stuff over.
Hoping to survive with my eyes, ears, and nose intact, I followed Greta to her station at the back of the salon. While I explained about my numerous cowlicks, she rummaged through her supplies. Then she wrapped me in a purple-flowered plastic cape. When she aimed the spray bottle at my head, I knew there was no turning back.