You Are Late by BuzzmeHT

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Snoozing the alarm is never a good idea, I don’t know why I keep doing it. Maybe I don’t want to get up and go to work, being a lawyer is not as fun as I thought it would be. At least I get to wear a suit, and I get to see other men looking their finest every day. On the other hand, well, I haven’t looked fine in a while.
 
I was already late, but I’m not one of those men who can wash and go. People with straight, full, model-like hair don’t know how good they have it. If I’m going to the gym, I can throw on a cap and I’m good, but formal wear and the Nike logo don’t quite match. So that morning, I’d already assumed I was paying a taxi to get to work "in time" and I was about to start my usual 15-minute blow drying routine. I have a long, textured forward fringe haircut, about 7 inches on the front and scissor cut on the sides and back. My hair is frizzy and coarse, but I’m a pro when it comes to straightening it with a hairbrush: putting a little bend on the bangs, directing it forward and a touch to the side… If I’m having a good hair day and I use the volume powders simply right, nobody can tell that my hairline is receding. In fact, I’m usually so good at hiding the shortcomings of my hair that I’ve gotten compliments. Again, on a good hair day. A windy day and, especially, a rainy day, have me checking my selfie camera and adjusting my hair every second to make sure it doesn’t look awful. And, even though I didn’t know it yet, today was going to be a bad day. The worst hair day ever. 

I strode towards the main street looking for a taxi. I was so late that most shops were starting to open to the public. It was a windy day, which meant my hair had already decided to have a life of its own. I saw my reflection in a shop window, it was already a bad hair day. My bangs were cut a little longer on the side I parted my hair to hide the recession, but when they weren’t styled perfectly, or the wind blew them in the wrong direction, they made my hair look even thinner than it was. I tried fixing them back into place and kept walking. 

I saw a taxi turning the corner and started running to hail it… Running and wind are also a real bad combination for any short of combover. The taxi driver ignored me, or didn’t see me. I turned to another window shop to survey the damage and quickly coiffed my hair, when I saw a man staring at me on the other side, disapproving. I had stopped right at the door of the small, old barbershop that was on my block. Every morning, I passed right in front of it on my way to work. It was one of those places that looked frozen in time, a relic from the last century, although the barber wasn’t the typical geezer. He was a good-looking guy, in his 40s, but he also seemed frozen in another time with his barber tunic. Our eyes met for a beat. 

It wasn’t the first time, sometimes I catch a sideways glance when walking past the shop in the morning. He was usually busy, always working on a customer with the clippers and always giving them a short, masculine, and brutally barbered look. Today, on the contrary, he was free, sweeping a mountain of hair that undoubtedly belonged to the previous customer. Or to the barber himself. He usually wore his hair cut in a tight brush cut, and today it looked as if it had been freshly mown. The sides and back were totally shaved quite high, and the top was barely longer than a #3 buzzcut and perfectly squared. I felt self-conscious knowing that this man was obviously judging me and my hair, lowered my head, and continued my way to work as every other morning. I had occasionally had the temptation of walking in and asking for a trim to see what would happen, but I was way too attached to my hair. I can complain a lot about the bad days, but the good days make up for the worst of them. I had found a barber that knew how I liked it styled and made sure my bangs were always long enough to cover the hairline just so. I hadn’t gone to any other barber in years, in fear of getting my modern combover cut too short. Other barbers had done it in the past, and I hated it when I couldn’t cover the thinning. No, the good days were worth all the trouble. And even getting late to work.

5pm. Everyone was heading off to get some afterwork drinks, but I had to stay and make up for arriving late that morning. Anyways, I wouldn’t have gone out with the guys today, my hair had only gotten worse throughout the day. I wrapped up work and made a quick stop in the bathroom before heading out. I catch myself in the mirror, my hair was messy and curling in the worst way possible. I surveyed the bangs, they were too long even though I had gone for a trim just two weeks ago. I wonder if my barber had left them too long this time, he was even more careful than I was when it came to "cutting off too much", or maybe my hairline had receded some more and it looked worse because of it. Maybe I was too quick styling them that morning since I was late and that’s why they looked particularly off today. In any case, the day was over, and tomorrow could be a good hair day. Or that’s what I thought.

I turned the corner of the main street, heading home. Most shops were already closed, but not the barbershop, that guy always closed late. Maybe he did love his work. My mind went back to that morning, to the disapproving look, to the brutal brush cut… I kept walking and decided not to steal a glance this time, my hair was in no state to be judged at the moment.

"You are late". A deep voice made me turn around. The barber was standing at the door, looking at me, almost impatient. I didn’t understand why he was talking to me. He invited me into the shop with a blunt gesture, "Come on, I’m about to close". I stared at him, puzzled. "You have booked an appointment, I don’t do cancellations". I didn’t know how to answer, but he was still waiting, unwavering: "I haven’t booked anything". "Yes, you have, this morning. Come on in, I’ll show you".

He stepped into the barbershop and waved for me to follow him. I was so confused I went into the shop to try and explain myself, even though I already had a bad feeling. "Look, I’m sure I haven’t made any bookings". "Oh, but you did. You stopped this morning in the door of my shop, in desperate need of a haircut, and I put you in the book". He read from the computer screen: "Here it is. A booking for the guy that’s always late for work and has a horrible combover that he thinks nobody notices". I froze, I didn’t know how to react, but I should have walked out right then and there.

"OK, we are doing this. Please, take a seat". I stood there, as he approached me with a cape. I didn’t move. "Let me take off your jacket and your briefcase". I still don’t know why, but I handed him the jacket and the briefcase and sat down in the chair, facing the mirror. I think I was so ashamed of being called out on my hair so directly, that I just shut down. I saw my reflection once again, my hair was a mess. Maybe a good haircut and a new barber were a good idea after all. Even if I was being forced into it.
The barber spared no time capping me. He put a piece of paper tissue inside my collar and made sure the cape was secure as tightly as possible around my neck. I looked at the counter: several clippers were hanging from some hooks in the front, and half a dozen guards were OCD-meticulously placed on the glass surface.

I knew I was not in charge of the situation, I remembered the very short and barbered looks of every customer I had seen walk out of this shop. Did I want this? Why was I complying?

The barber seemed to read my mind, or see me tense up, because he reassuringly put his arms on my shoulders and took out a comb from his barber tunic. "Let’s take care of this first". In an instant, he combed my bangs up, right where I parted them, on the corner where the sides were usually left longer to give me leeway to style them to hide my… SNIP.

A pair of scissors had appeared in his hand seemingly out of nowhere and were slicing my combover… SNIP. Six inches of bangs fell dead on the cape as the blades snapped shut barely half an inch from my scalp. "Off to a great start", the barber sentenced as he closed the shop door and left me contemplating the destruction that had happened.

I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t or didn’t want to. I was in shock, or maybe I secretly wanted this. I looked at my hairline, suddenly devoid of any cover. It didn’t look horrible or terribly balding, but it made me look old. Older than a guy in his 30s.

The barber came back and went straight to the counter, somehow it felt like I wasn’t even there. I didn’t have a choice or an opinion, I was just waiting for this man to decide what he was going to do to me. I heard the hum of the clippers and wondered when was the last time I had had them taken to my hair. I felt a cold blade on my nape and I knew what it meant. He pushed the clippers hard against my scalp and up towards the crown, easing them a little towards the top. I couldn’t see any change from the front, besides the truncated half-inch bangs on the side where my architectural combover used to be. I wondered how long my haircut was going to end up being now that my bangs were that short. But, again, I didn’t know what the barber had in store for me, maybe this was just the beginning.

He worked fast, but with incredible precision. He started on the right side and I saw what I already imagined. He was clipper-shaving them down to the wood. Goodbye, sideburns. I wondered if he had any plans for my three-day beard that also looked a little unkempt. He quickly peeled off the other side. I still had the mop of wind-tangled hair on top of my head, all the seven inches of it. They looked so out of place now… Would I look out of place in the office after this? I was sure of something: people were going to know I was receding now. But maybe, like the barber, they already knew and this was a better option. Or at least a better looking one on a bad hair day.

The barber went again to the counter and took another machine. I assumed the top was next and prepared for the worst. But instead, he attacked the nape once more. He was using an electric shaver. He looked at me in the mirror for the first time, "We are starting to look like twins, aren’t we?". He smiled at me, I was still frozen. So maybe that was the plan? He saw me looking in awe this morning and maybe he was giving me a nice, tight brush cut like his? Again, he seemed to be reading my mind as he continued shaving my sides and back: "Such a pity your hair isn’t right for a brush cut. I love doing military flattops". If it wasn’t a brush cut… what was he going to give me? At least I knew he wasn’t shaving me bald. This guy was methodical, if he were shaving me all the way around he would have already clipped the top with the sides and the back.

He went back to the counter and picked up the clippers again: guardless. OK, maybe I was wrong. He took the comb again from his tunic and started cutting my crown clipper over comb. I could feel the comb close to the skin. He saw me looking nervously, assessing the damage, and proceeded to swivel the chair off to the side. I kept feeling the comb raking and lifting the hair, inching closer and closer. He lifted the bangs… the other side of my fringe fell in a curtain of hair in front of my eyes. Reality landed on me. I was being scalped by a traditional barber, getting a haircut I didn’t ask for or want… He went back to the counter and snapped a guard on the clippers. I assume he was blending the sides and the top, although he had already spent at least ten minutes going clipper over comb around my head. I felt the clippers on my crown, he was decimating it. After a while he returned to the clipper and comb and went again over the top. I wanted to scream, but couldn’t. I knew each pass was making it military short. He combed whatever was left of the bangs and gave them some pointy snips with the scissors, shorting them a bit more. I was completely resigned, he was in control. He had been from the beginning.

"Looking great". I was swiveled back towards the mirror. If I hadn’t been frozen I would have gasped. He had given me a high and tight, a marine cut, shorter than finger length on top and a little longer on the front, kind of like a Caesar haircut. But I was even more shocked to see that, the way he had cut the bangs, the hairline actually looked nice. A little receding, but it wasn’t as noticeable as I thought. It looked fine just like that, not that I could style them any other way with that length. No more blow drying in the morning, no more fringe, no more good or bad hair days. I looked like another person, but it felt good. Manly, barbered, professional.

He reclined the chair, he wasn’t finished yet. Without asking, he shaved my face with and against the grain, then he made me sit up straight again and cleaned the edges of the haircut with the razor. He was taking his time, touching the now naked skin with care, feeling for any trace of hair he might have missed. I sat there taking in the new military look. My new look. The barber smiled: "Much better".

The barber uncapped me, I told my legs to stand up, but nothing happened. He returned with my jacket and the briefcase and I finally stood as he helped me put the suit jacket back on. He examined his masterpiece again, approving, and tightened my tie to make it look perfect. Our eyes met, this time I felt less ashamed.

I absentmindedly looked for some cash in my wallet, but he interrupted me. "No need. There you go". He opened the barbershop door and offered his hand. "Name’s Jack. I’ll let you know when your next booking is". I shook his hand, still in a daze: "I’m Tom. I live on this block".
"Nice to meet you, Tom", he said with a smile, ending the handshake. "See you tomorrow, I trust you won’t be late".

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