The Kindest Cut

By Jeanne

I hesitate for a moment, my hand on the doorknob. To tell the truth, I'm a little nervous. I've chosen the Custom Reality option, and I'm not quite sure what I'll find when I open the door. After all, the destination I've selected isn't in any movie that Antonio has made. I'm headed for a time and place a bit off the beaten path.

I've decided to visit the Venice of several centuries ago to meet Armand before he became a vampire. Now, "Interview with the Vampire" has never been one of my favorite Antonio movies. For one thing, he's not in it enough. And for another, he looks awful. The vampire pallor, the ropy blue veins, the scary teeth. But mostly, it's the hair. That terrible, long mop of straight, black hair that reaches almost to his waist and overwhelms his beautiful features. When I'm watching IWTV, the hair is all I can think about. Oh, Armand, Armand, I silently plead. Couldn't you go just a bit shorter? Something softer to frame that gorgeous face? But always, it's the same. My pleas fall on deaf ears. Until now.

I have to give full marks to the Banderas World makeup and wardrobe department. I'm dressed as a wealthy Venetian woman of Armand's time, and I look like something out of a painting by Titian or Tintoretto, brocaded and bejeweled. In my reticule, I have the items that the props department has supplied.

My memory of Anne Rice's books is imperfect, but as I recall, when Armand was human, he lived with the vampire Marius in his Venetian palazzo. Marius had been a vampire for several centuries at that time, and with the help of his vampiric abilities, he had become one of the foremost painters of his day. Armand was his pupil, learning the techniques of Renaissance painting from his dark master.

I have no wish to encounter Marius on my virtual visit, so I have carefully specified that I am to arrive at mid-morning on a sunny spring day. When I open the Custom Reality door at last and step through, I find that I am in the entrance hall of the palazzo, and I am reassured to see sunlight streaming through the tall, narrow windows. So far, so good, I think, as I run my hands over the cool, rough surface of the stone walls. Very realistic, I admit, as a breeze wafts through the open windows, bringing me a whiff of the canals that makes me truly thankful for modern sanitation.

A servant enters the hall, looking a bit startled to find me there. When he asks if he can help me, I am tremendously impressed with the Universal Language Equalizer that Virgentrix has incorporated into Banderas World. For although the servant speaks a centuries-old Venetian dialect, I find that I can understand and respond to him as easily as if we were speaking modern English.

I tell the servant that I am here to see about having my portrait painted. He regretfully informs me that Marius, the master, is not available at this hour. Then perhaps Signor Armand, I suggest, and the servant nods. He ushers me into a large room that seems to serve as the painters' studio, then withdraws in search of Armand.

I wander about the studio, looking at Renaissance masterpieces in the making. There are paintings in every stage of completion, and brushes, pigments and oils are ranged in orderly fashion on the tables. A large mirror hangs at one end of the room. I'm checking my appearance when that deep, smoky, unmistakable voice says, "Welcome," and Armand appears in the mirror beside me.

I'm a little flustered by his sudden appearance, and when I turn to him, I'm unable to speak for a moment. He is incredibly beautiful. Recognizably Armand, but alive, not yet a vampire. His skin is dark, flushed with life. When his lips part in a smile, I see that his teeth are reassuringly normal. He is wearing a loose white shirt tucked into dark breeches that cling to his hips and thighs. Boots of the softest leather are molded to his calves.

I sigh with admiration as my eyes travel slowly back up his body. He takes my hand and raises it to his lips. He bends toward me, bowing politely, and his hair falls forward, obscuring his face. It's just as long as in the movie, but not quite as dark. This Armand, I think, doesn't shun the daylight, and the sun has left some reddish highlights in his hair.

When the silence between us threatens to become awkward, he speaks. "So," he says, "you want me to paint your portrait."

"Well, that's what I told your servant," I reply, "but truthfully, I'm here for another reason."

"Oh?" he remarks. His brows rise inquisitively, and a little smile plays about his lips. "It would be my pleasure to render a more -- ah -- personal service." His eyes twinkle, and he manages to sound playful, suggestive and sincere, all at once.

It's a tempting offer to be sure, and the fact that I don't even consider it proves the extent of my obsession. "It's not what you can do for me," I reply, "but rather what I can do for you." I sound a bit like John F. Kennedy, but Armand doesn't seem to notice. After all, he's never heard of President Kennedy.

"What do you mean?" he asks me.

"Armand," I say, "it's about your hair."

"Well, what about it?" he replies, looking a little puzzled.

I try my best to be tactful. "Have you ever considered a different style?" I ask. "Maybe a little shorter?"

He shakes his head slowly and turns to look at himself in the mirror. "Every man I know wears his hair this way," he protests. "It's the fashion."

"It's a fad," I say a little sharply. "In a few hundred years, you'll be sick of it."

Armand looks at me as if I've lost my mind, but I ignore that. I'm on a mission here, and time is of the essence. Once Armand becomes a vampire, it will be too late. He can cut his hair as short as Morales Pittman's every night, and every day, as he sleeps in his coffin, it will grow back. The time for action is now.

Armand's reluctance is not entirely unexpected, and, thanks to the Banderas World props department, I've come prepared. I reach into my reticule and pull out my secret weapon. It's a photograph of El Mariachi. He looks out at us with his dark, dangerous glance, his hair curling slightly just above his shoulders.

"What is that?" Armand asks, his voice filled with amazement. He examines the picture closely. "It looks so real," he says. "Is it some new kind of painting?"

I realize then that, of course, Armand has never seen a photograph. "It's a new technique," I say hastily, hoping that he won't ask me to explain further. "But the important part is the hair. Focus on the hair, Armand. With a little trim," I continue, pointing to the photograph, "this could be you. Or at least your hair."

He gives El M an appraising glance, and I can tell that he's considering. "Well, it is a good look," he says at last.

"An excellent look," I agree. "And it can be yours right now," I add, taking scissors, comb and brush from my reticule. "I'm ready if you are."

Armand looks from me, to the photograph, and back again. He can tell I'm completely serious. One last glance at El M seems to persuade him, and he nods decisively. "Let's do it!" he says. He pulls a stool toward the middle of the room and takes a seat, waiting for me to begin.

What I have to say next seems tremendously daring, but really, it's for his own good. "Maybe you should take your shirt off," I suggest. "I'd hate to get hair down your collar."

Armand pulls his shirt over his head, the muscles of his back rippling beneath his bronzed skin. "I'm ready now," he says, giving me a little smile.

I move toward him and reach out, hesitantly at first, smoothing the hair back from his face. I begin to brush with long, slow strokes, and I see at once that he loves the feel of my hands in his hair. His eyes close slowly, and he sighs luxuriantly, surrendering to my touch. He reminds me of a big, beautiful cat, stretched in the sun, purring as its mistress ruffles its fur.

It's time for the scissors now, and as I begin to snip, the long, dark locks fall around us on the floor. I work my way slowly around Armand, coming to stand before him at last. His knees are apart, and I step between them, leaning closer to trim the hair that frames his face. His muscular thighs press gently against me, and I feel his warm breath on the skin left bare by my low-cut bodice.

Heart palpitations and shortness of breath threaten to derail my tonsorial efforts, but I persist, determined to see it through. At last, the job is done, and I step back to admire my handiwork. Armand is transformed. His hair brushes his bare shoulders, the ends beginning to curl just a bit.

I take Armand's hand and lead him to the mirror. He gives a little nod and smiles at his reflection, clearly happy with his new look. As he admires himself, I do my best to remove the stray hairs that cling to him, brushing my hands across his shoulders and down his back. My touch pleases him, and he sighs a little as my fingertips caress his skin.

I tear myself away at last and reach for my reticule, replacing comb, brush and scissors. I decide to leave the photograph with Armand, and I take, as a memento of my visit, a lock of his long, dark hair. "My work here is done," I say, and I turn from him, making my way back to the entrance hall.

"Wait, wait, wait," Armand implores, and I hear his step behind me in the hall. As I turn to him, he says (and I swear I'm not making this up), "Did I thank you?"

My heart is pounding when I answer. "No, Armand," I say, "but I really, really hope that you're about to."

He gives a little chuckle and steps toward me, taking my face in his hands. He touches his lips to mine, softly at first, then with growing eagerness. His arms enfold me as my lips open beneath his, and his tongue enters my mouth, making me dizzy with the sudden intimacy. It is a long, lovely, delicious kiss, and when it's over, he says, "Thank you."

My head is spinning, but through the daze, one paramount thought emerges: I've got to call my broker. Virgentrix stock is going to go through the roof! This technology absolutely can't miss.

Armand is looking at me, and I manage to collect myself enough to take his hand and say goodbye. I reach behind me, fumbling for the door that will take me back to the real world. I find the doorknob at last, and as I turn it, Armand speaks once again.

"I'm glad you came to see me," he says. "I hope you'll come again."

His voice is warm, his tone sincere. And even though I know he's programmed to say that, it's still nice to hear.