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.

"

I load my hatchback in the black of night. The only light source attached to my head. The temperature continues to drop, I pray it won't reach 32°. Turning off my headlamp, I go inside checking for items left behind, and just as I suspected, my thermos stands proudly atop the birch table in the living room. I reach for the steel chasm that holds my caffeinated energy for the next few hours as I walk out the front door. The dense wooden door slowly creeps behind me as I step into the brisk air. The darkness welcomed me as I paved a path through the night with my headlamp. As I pull on the car door, the car screams to notify me that the keys are in the ignition, interrupting the soothing silence of the night. I squat into the low clearance vehicle. I slide the chair back almost immediately as my 6'5" frame does not fit with the chair settings my mother, 5'8", left in the car. The sliding back of the chair clicks into place as the dashboard light allows me to recognize my lenses are on the passenger seat. Not left behind.

"

The clippers run side to side, attacking the hair that protrudes from my freshly rinsed skin. His hands, worn and full of mileage, push my head forward to perform a clean tapper cut. The kitchen, which he works in, reflects the sunlight off the bright orange walls accompanied by yellow cabinet doors. Today is quiet, today we are in our own thoughts. The clippers continue to trim around my head. His hands uncap the spray can, pointed at the mouths of the clippers, he sprays a greasy mixture into the machine, the clippers pick up speed, running more smoothly. We begin to talk about my upcoming endoscopy. The thoughts begin to race through my head. He cracks a joke, one too far. The sound of the clippers begins to mix in with my isolation, the thoughts now buzzing and nipping at my emotions. There is a sensation of weightlessness. The cloth around my neck tightens as the room's temperature climbs towards the triple digits. The aroma from the oil my father sprayed begins to clog and attack my nostrils, suffocating me, wishing harm upon me. A bead of sweat drops from my hairline as the clippers continue to buzz. His hands, swiftly moving across my scalp—scanning for uneven hairs. The buzzers sweep in for the cut, only to nick my father's finger—drawing blood. I sweat profusely, while the blood drips onto my lap. My heart begins to race, chaos floods my senses. The clippers continue to buzz, the sensation of impending doom draws my mind to cut black.

"

The lights pass by as I leave town. Darkness welcomes my isolated self as I drive into the woods and towards the mountain. The trees pass by in a blur. The road turns to gravel, I wind around and through the forest up the mountain. The road comes to a sudden stop, as I arrive at my destination. My bag filled to the brim with lenses and a camera body, lifted upon one shoulder as I begin to walk into the forest. In the distance, Mount Kendrick is ablaze. The air is smoky, thick and heavy gusts swirl around my head. The smell of the smoke throws my mind in a whirl as I prepare my camera for the night. The camera eye opens for thirty seconds. There is a waiting period. When the photo appears, frustration comes naturally. The smoke swims in and out of the lens and infiltrates the sensor. The environment has given the image too much noise. Blocking out the landscape, while the wildfire ablaze in the background has lit up the night and botched the photo. As the fire burned in the distance, my camera panicked. Mother Nature moved her distractions towards my camera. The night sky slowly moved across along with the stars, as the moon began to pierce through the smoke, which pounced on my camera, the photographs continued to come out poor. Anxious, I began to suffer from the same effects my camera was feeling, I packed up and left the mountain—Unsuccessful. My camera had gone through sensory overload.

"

My father's hands squeeze the button, the clippers power down. The pounding of my heart finally begins to calm, as it creeps into my forehead. No words can describe the sensation I felt. Waking from the darkness, the kitchen floor's icy tile attacks my back as I snapped into reality and became aware of my surroundings. The barber in my father shouted, "30 seconds left, finish your haircut or I'm packing up my things!" My father's hands ran along the rough and aged leather suitcase, becoming impatient, as he needed to complete the rest of his to-do list that day. The floor striking my skin with its freezing breath. "Thirty Seconds!" impatiently he exclaimed. I sit up, my head spins as if it were at the carnival. I sit through the finishing touches of the haircut as the buzzing against my skull continues throughout my thoughts. Drained, I find myself lying on the sofa as if I had survived a heart attack. The sensation had overloaded my senses and that was my first experience with anxiety.