Where scissors dance and mirrors reflect, the chair spins tales of transformations while clippers hum a familiar tune, leaving heads lighter and egos sharper.

In darkness deep my life begins, where time and pressure forge my skin. Yet brought to light I gleam so bright, what am I, a hidden delight?

Breath or helium, On a string in a child's hand. Or airbourne basket.

I swell with air, a rubbery moon, Pricked just right, I let out a tune, What am I, that might pop soon?

It’s named for the action used, towards you, it opens. Take away the last two: Standoff, sketch, or bring closer. One of junk, one of tools, one of payments at grocers. Less the first: sounds like a growl, when ‘effeminate’s certain.