Rylan Shannon
Stories (1/0)
Sensory Overload
Sensory Overload My father throws a drape over my shoulders while tightly fastening the cloth around my neck. Uncomfortable, I re-adjust my bare feet on the stool too small for my 6'5" frame. His aged brown leather suitcase, spun to 9-1-6, unlocked & open, engraved with initials, R.S.K. My father's name, Randy Scott Shannon. He always told me that the K was silent. The hand-sewn burgundy pouches cradle matte black clippers, black plastic combs, clashing blue-orange spray can, stainless steel scissors with a comb on one blade, and roughly torn paper squares with a brief list of friends' preferred haircuts. My bare skin, sensitive to the cool lick that the seat gives off, awakens me. Fresh out of the shower on a Sunday morning. He found the suitcase in a yard sale, of a deceased man back in '84. He bought himself the present when he graduated from Barber School. This was our time. He cut my hair in Trimesters it seemed-we ran a loose schedule.
By Rylan Shannon6 years ago in Psyche