Stage Presence

It was the gap in the exit that provided his entrance, a crack in the fire door widened to an opening by blackened fingers, prising. He shuffled in, bags rustling, feet scraping, and, like the dust particles that catch no light, slipped by the doors unnoticed. In the bathroom he slid the bolt across to keep the world out and filled the sink with hot, soapy water. He drew a razor from his pocket and tore into the cardboard packaging, and in the stained glass mirror, under the bare reflection of the flouresence, began scraping the thick black hairs in long downward strokes, shedding clump after clump and blade after blade, occasionally pausing to tap the tinny plastic head against the porcelain bowl. Now finished he pulled the plug, letting the water swirl around his hands, and watching the foam and soap sucking and gurgling away, then, once emptied, he wiped his fingers around the shavings of hair beached on the sides and rinsed them a final time. He pulled off his coat, a weathered sodden beast that clung to him like a second skin, and from deep inside produced a pair of scissors that he wielded with the deftness and precision of the stoically repressed. He cut the locks of thick clotted hair that protruded in snake-like coils from his scalp, fighting against the roots, reshaping this bird nest of a head into small spiky tufts, groomed to perfection. He reached down and pulled apart one of the cheap plastic bags accompanying him. Inside was a tightly wrapped brown package that he slit open and emptied of the black material and soft sharp creases. A shirt followed, a tie and a pair of shoes, polished enough to see his soul in. He brushed his new being down, wiped smears of red from under his neck, tightened his tie and stepped from the door. The lights came up just as his clipped footsteps brought him to his mark, and in the glow of the stage he found himself.