DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc. The story contents are the creation and property of T'Kuht and is copyright (c) 2002 by T'Kuht. Rated PG.

Polished Granite


The sign said, "Walk-ins welcome!"

A glance in the store window indicated there were no other customers waiting. That was excellent. He had no time to waste waiting. Stepping quickly inside, he was approached by a smiling Deltan. "Greetings, how may I help you?"

"I require a Star Fleet regulation hair cut, immediately," he answered without preamble. The Deltan was used to Vulcan patrons. However, he had never seen a male Vulcan with such unruly, long hair.

"Certainly," the barber replied and brushed off the chair, ushered the man to sit down, and put a cape around his neck. "Do you wish the standard Vulcan cut?"

The patron thought a second. "Yes, the bangs across the front, swept forward."

"And pointed sideburns, yes, I know," the Deltan finished and began snipping off great locks of the sun exposed hair. The man in the chair watched the strands fall as if they were leaves on an autumn day. If there was any symbolism or attachment with the hair, he did not acknowledge it.

The Deltan spoke as he worked. "Your hands could use attention as well. Would you care for a manicure while I work?"

The man looked at his hands. They were rough and coarse, a remnant of the physical labor he'd done. The nails were broken, chipped, splintered. "Yes, if the treatment will not delay the hair cut."

"No, just place your hands on those pads please and hold them very still." He did as the barber instructed, felt the tingle of the energized solution as it began sloughing and smoothing the long thin fingers. The machine stopped whirring and a buffer worked on the nails. Involuntary stimulus created goosebumps; he ignored them.

"Do you also wish your eyebrows shaped up?"

"If they require it."

Switching from the sheers to a fine needle, the gentle zapping of the errant hairs was not painful nor was it pleasurable. It was simply necessary. With a last touch, the barber instructed, "Chin to your chest, please."

The clippers worked quickly and cleanly shaving the last bits of hair away to leave a perfect neckline. Removing the cape, the barber smiled at his handiwork and turned the chair around to the mirror. For the first time in years, he saw himself. The Vulcan Spock who had gone to Gol lay on the floor ready to be swept up. The Star Fleet officer now stared back at him. "What do you think?"

Spock just stared. "It is done."

The barber thought nothing of the odd statement and charged him the standard fee for a haircut, manicure, and facial electrolysis. Spock paid with an extra amount for being so efficient and left. The long-range shuttle would be finished powering up by the time he got to the port to leave for the Enterprise and the answers that he had to have.