The Scarlet Falls Barbershop: Ben by Faded Dusk

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Wednesdays. ‘Hump day’ as so many often call them. Sometimes I would instead refer to them affectionately as ‘the waiting days.’ For one reason or another, there weren’t that many people who came in to get a haircut on Wednesdays, to the point that I occasionally considered moving my days off from every other Sunday to every other Wednesday. Somehow I would always talk myself out of it by relishing the slowness, giving myself an easier day in the middle of the week and a break day every couple weeks to go with it. But I’d be lying if I said the monotony didn’t weigh on me sometimes. Especially when I’d perk up at the ringing of the bell only to find that it was one of my regular, older customers, in for a trim of their wispy hair. All business is good business, but that doesn’t make it fun business, you know?

I allowed my eyes to wander from the novel I was reading (book 9 in a mystery series, of which I could not possibly tell you the name) up to the clock. 11 AM. Three hours in and only one customer to speak of. I leaned back and braced myself for one of those days. Twenty minutes later, I shifted to people watching just for a little variety. Foot traffic wasn’t the most common thing around my shop, but the area also wasn’t exactly barren in terms of other shops to visit, so there was usually an interesting enough landscape to occupy my attention for a while. On occasion I could even pop out onto the sidewalk every once in a while and entice a walk-in. That, or perhaps someone would take pity on me sitting alone on the window side bench waiting for a customer.

But today, a young man almost immediately caught my eye, exiting his tired looking car with a nervous jitter and fidgeting with his shirt collar. He looked twenty, and his car looked as though his parents had been driving him around in it when he was in middle school. His outfit was similarly youthful, looking like he’d just walked off a college campus with an untucked collared shirt, lightweight capris, and simple leather sandals. Of course, the detail I zeroed in on was his hair, a luscious light brown with a difficult to discern length, as it was all swept back off his face, but judging from the occasional strand that slipped forward next to his temples, it had to be at least eight inches. Unfortunately for me, parking on that side of the street typically meant a customer for the antique shop or bakery across the way. Not that I would begrudge them the business when Tasha was prone to giving me the occasional free doughnut or scone.

To my surprise, the young man walked right past the shops and around the corner out of sight. I wouldn’t have thought much of it if he hadn't then walked back around the block and emerged near his vehicle again, before crossing the street and disappearing from sight once more. Then he reappeared, strode right past my window, crossed the street again, and then vanished behind the bakery another time. I watched him repeat this circuit, and quite possibly every variation of it for a few more cycles, and it dawned on me that he wasn’t looking around with the typical perplexed expression of a man unable to find his destination. Rather, his face seemed more…nervous. As he walked he would fiddle with his necklace, push his hair out of his face, allow his gaze to dart around a little, then keep striding along. When his eyes briefly met mine and he rapidly averted them, that cinched it. He was here for me after all, he was just terribly anxious about it. I let him circle a few more times before I ambled over to my door and took a few steps outside, making sure to time it such that I would exit in sync with his approach to my window. Upon my emergence he jumped slightly and stopped. "Can I help you, sir?" I asked as gently as possible.

"You’re…you’re Rangar, right?" he stammered out.

"Unless someone has changed my name without my knowledge, yes," I joked. I caught the hints of a smile even as he continued to avoid directly meeting my eyes, "why don’t you come inside, since I take it you’re here to see me." He followed me silently back indoors, hesitating a moment before sitting gingerly on the bench. I sauntered over to the counter and got out one of my glass cups, "would something to drink help after that marathon you’ve been on?" The smallest of laughs escaped him, and he finally looked up at me. I was grateful he did, those big brown eyes were mesmerizing.

"Sorry, I guess you noticed me lurking around out there. I hope I didn’t waste your time or anything like that."

"Buddy, I haven’t had a client in hours. If anything, you were some quality entertainment, like chariot racing in the Coliseum." Another laugh, this was progress.

"You’re…a lot younger than I was picturing to be honest. If that’s not rude to say."

"What, did you think I’d be a stumbling geezer, hands so shaky I’d sooner slice off your ear than your hair?" I quipped.

"From how Tyson, ah, Mr. Walsh, described you, that was closer to the mental image," he said.

"Tyson Walsh, owner of one of the finest flattops in Scarlet Falls? Is he spreading nasty rumors about me?"

"Nothing like that, but he did request I come see you before I start work on Monday. I was happy to even get an interview, much less a full internship with him, but his support did come with a caveat…"

"A haircut?" I finished. "Yeah. Ty’s a lovely fellow, but such a stickler for old-fashioned…well…fashion. Believe it or not, only mandating a haircut is an improvement from the last guy he sent me. The pocket protector and tweed jacket was not a great look for him…though that one may have just been an office prank. Anyway, you got a name?"

"Ben," he smiled, "and…thank you, for being patient with me."

"My pleasure, Ben," I smiled back, "now if you could come take a proper seat, I can get you up to old Tyson’s regulations in no time." While he warily made his way over to the chair, I pulled out one of my new maroon capes. The color is a bit on the nose, but in this line of work, it’s the little things that matter. As soon as Ben settled back, I whisked the cape over him and fastened it securely. I then slid a comb out of my tunic pocket and started running it through the canvas now in front of me. Shockingly, his hair was even nicer than I’d first thought when I saw him, soft, healthy, and almost perfectly straight. The comb ran right through. "So Ben," I started while I worked, "why Walsh Law of all the jobs? I’m guessing you didn’t pick it out of a hat if you’re willing to cut your hair for the position."

"You’re right on that front," he said, "I needed some type of legal work in my resume for my applications this spring. I’m taking a gap year right now to study for the LSAT and prep for law school, and all the counsel says working in the field gives a huge boost to any prospective student. And Walsh is the best in the area, so…here I am, hair on the chopping block for you."

"Well I’ll endeavor not to make you regret that decision. Did Tyson give you any specific instructions for me? Scratch that, it’s Tyson, I’m almost certain he did."

That evoked another laugh from Ben, "indeed he did. To quote him directly, ‘tell Ragnar I said to use the clippers liberally, don’t be shy with the scissors, and make sure he’ll never have it falling in his eyes! I want to see some scalp!’ He was pretty adamant about that last part too. He even sent me a follow-up email with that as the subject line…"

"Hmmm," I pondered, almost absentmindedly running my fingers through Ben’s hair, "despite that, he did leave a little wiggle room for us. So the question now becomes, do you want me to take it all the way and just," I mimicked the motion of the clippers running straight down the middle of his head, "or just take everything down shorter but leave you with a little length to play with?"

His eyes met mine in the mirror, "would he be accepting of the latter option? I’m not so sure I want to risk incurring irritation this early on if I can avoid it…"

"I mean, you’ve seen his flattop. The man’s a stickler, but he’s also not above appreciating a little style. Plus, I can show you a trick that’ll help keep him satisfied. Fair warning though, going the longer-ish route will require more consistent trips here."

"I don’t really see that as a deterrent, honestly. I think I’ll just put my fate in your capable hands though. You know him better than I do after all."

"Well then, we’d better get started," I smiled. I combed the top of his hair forward, clipping it up into a horseshoe parting in preparation for the style I was going for, and spun him away from the mirror. Picking up the clippers with a #1 guard, I pushed his chin down and ruffled the hair on the back of his head one last time. "Ready?"

He nodded in affirmation, and the clippers roared to life. To my delight, they glided through his hair just as easily as the comb did, carving a path up the back of his head and depositing a sizable chunk of hair onto his left shoulder with a single flick. Ben shuddered a little as the clump slid further down the cape into his lap and he got his first look at what was in store, but said nothing. And so I continued, shearing away strip after strip, with the light brown silk tumbling lifelessly away with ease. I almost felt bad considering how gorgeous this hair really was, but I suppose if anyone had to butcher the kid, I may as well relish the opportunity. Besides, while the fur on the back of his head wasn’t quite as silky soft, it was still a pleasant experience to run one’s hand through.

I turned him slightly and started work on the right side, obliterating the sideburn with a single swipe and working my way up to the part line. Their light color almost made the clusters look like tumbleweeds as they made their way past my hand, sliding into Ben’s lap and settling without a sound. All the while, Ben never spoke a word. I couldn’t really tell with his face out of view whether it was nerves, enjoyment, maybe anger? Regardless, I gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze before moving on to the left side, divesting it of hair with rapid strokes and piling on to the collection in Ben’s lap. One of his hands slipped out from under the cape and fondled the severed locks briefly, before retreating again.

I finally moved to unclip the top. Seeing as this would probably be the roughest part for him to bear, I didn’t exactly want to drag it out, but I also needed to be careful about my process to make sure I didn’t butcher things, and so I combed the luscious hair forward, leaving a huge fringe dangling across his entire face, completely obscuring his eyes and ending just under his chin. Cautiously, I slid the scissors into the mass, and snipped across the forehead, seven inches of beautiful brown locks tickled my hand on the way past and slid to join the pile below. With the guideline established, I moved into the top proper with renewed vigor, taking the bangs as a starting point to chop every last hair down to roughly the same length. There was even more here than I had first assumed, for every seven inch tuft I sliced away and tossed with its brethren, it felt as though two dozen more took its place. The pile in his lap must have weighed at least a few hefty pounds by now, but I just kept cutting, and cutting, and cutting, and cutting. The cape was so full that occasionally pieces slid right off and blanketed Ben’s exposed sandals with a soft coat. After what must’ve felt like hours, the last locks fell, and I set down the scissors.

"Ben, I know you’re probably trying to not pay much attention right now, but I do need you to take note of this part," I murmured. Scooping some pomade into my hand, I worked it through the short, sharp hair that still remained, slicking it back such that it sat tightly and cleanly. Then, just to try and lighten the mood, I pulled a single strand out from the mass and let it hang over his temple. And finally, I turned the chair back around and gave him his first look. The slightest of smiles emerged when he saw the singular curled strand, but otherwise his face was a mask of emotionless analysis as he ran a hand through the stiff, product-filled cut where minutes earlier had been silky flow. I gently unclipped the cape and let the accumulated hair slide to the floor, where Ben took a moment to just…stare at it. "You alright?"

"Yeah, I…I think I am," he managed, "it’s just…it’s a lot to process. But I like it. It’s different, but…I really do like it." He shakily got to his feet, the last remnants of his hair falling from his sandals as he moved, "how much do I owe you?"

I shook my head, "as long as you promise to come back in a few weeks for a shape up, this one’s free. And give Tyson my best." I went to shake his hand, but he pulled me into a hug. I was unsure precisely how to react, so I kind of just let it happen, and he stepped back after a couple seconds and grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry, I didn't think words would do the trick. Thank you again, Ragnar, for everything." I saw him off from the doorframe, and as he strode off confidently back to his car, I got the feeling I hadn’t seen the last of him. If nothing else, he certainly made my Wednesday.

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