PART ONE: Damien's Choice by Lemon

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PART ONE

[This is part one of a two-part series. I am not a frequent writer, so please be patient if Part Two takes longer than you or I thought it would. As an aside—since I've already broken the fourth wall—thank you for your comments on past stories. If you've read multiple stories of mine, you can probably tell that I don't do fully bald or shaved heads, so apologies that those requests will likely go unanswered, but I appreciate the feedback and incorporate it where I can.]

Barely six months ago, in the offices of Mary Baker—local real estate broker, CPA, and private tennis coach—Damien Northrop purchased Bill's Barber Shop in the small college town of Bear's End. Main street's proprietors were local monopolies. Dr. Schumacher practiced dentistry—solo. Kyle Thomas operated the town's only gas station. For groceries within city limits, the nearby families and students had to visit Portwood's. What everyone had in common—the Schumachers, the Thomases, the Portwoods—was that they did their trade well, obviating any need to go the next town over.

Damien did his trade well. Most of the men in town visited his shop, Bill's Barber Shop, when their locks needed barbering. Damien never met Bill. He only met Mary Baker who represented the family selling the shop. Damien kept the name. Changing the shop's name would merely be trashing the goodwill and reputation he had purchased along with the plot of land and building. The people of Bear's End knew Bill's Barber Shop, and they'd keep coming. Just instead of Bill throwing a cape over them, it would be Damien.

Damien moved for a fresh start as a relatively new barber. He was just shy of 30 years old. His brushed-back chocolate locks, slightly curling and feathering in the back, contrasted the stereotypical image of a small-town barber: Old, stiff, bald or balding. Customers received a variety of styles—modern, traditional, short, long, clippered, scissors-only.

But the local relative monopoly factored into Damien's practice. Damien recognized that at some point, customers would drive an additional 30 minutes for a haircut rather than put up with a butcher, so Damien listened to his clients, gave them what they wanted. Mostly. Every few weeks, Damien would give a barber's choice, unknowingly to the caped patron. To maintain his reputation, Damien had a few rules: He would never takes his liberties more than twice in a three-week period; he would only use college students; it would have to be a first-time customer (at least, for now, it's only been six months after all); and it would have to be the last customer of the day. With these strict criteria, Damien sometimes went more than six weeks before another opportunity presented itself. The last Damien's choice haircut was almost two months ago. He was itching for another opportunity.

Damien almost made his current customer the lucky client. He was a first-timer, a freshman nearby, with relatively short sides, but an unruly mop of blonde tangles crowned his head. But by the time he sat in the chair, the shop was still open for another hour. He wasn't going to close early just for a chance at this head of hair. After all, he still had a reputation, and what would people say if the town's only barber just started closing early when he felt like it. That Damien isn't very reliable. You can't be sure the shop'll be open if you try to squeeze in at the end of the day. These young people don't want to work anymore.

So, Damien resigned himself to this missed opportunity. It was very possible that another customer wouldn't walk in this evening. And even if he did, the chances of satisfying the other criteria were slim. As if to mock Damien, the door chimed and a portly, middle-aged balding man came in. Oh, well. Another day, another time. Damien finished the young man in his chair. He preserved the length on top while managing to tame the tangles, leaving the young man with a semi-connected undercut. Then the student traded the chair for the older gentleman, money exchanged hands, and Damien settled in for his (unfortunate) last cut of the day. It was 15 until close.

Just as Damien tightened the cape on the wispy-haired gentleman—Michael Martin, by the way—the door chimed in again. A first-timer, for sure. Unlike the last client who at least looked like he'd seen a barber within the last month or two, this young man had unruly locks that lapped over his ears and curled over his collar. The length of the fuzz growing around his nape revealed that his last haircut was at least three, if not four, months ago.

"Hey, uh, can I still get a haircut today?" he croaked. "Or too close to closing?"

Damien saw his opportunity. "Not at all. I've still got room for one more. Just flip the sign to 'closed' for me." The young man complied and took a seat in the waiting area. Mr. Martin took no time at all. This was his monthly trip, and he requested the same every time: A #1 all over. Simple, efficient, and fast. Mr. Martin paid and scuttled out.

The young barber slapped the back of the chair. "Alright, last of the day." The young man took the signal and approached the chair, settling into the red upholstery and resting his sneakers on the metal footrest. "Attend Forestdale?" Damien draped the pinstriped cape over.

"Yeah, I just started this year. Moved across state." College student, confirmed.

"Semester started three, four months ago, no? Had it cut since then?"

He responded with a nervous laugh. "Nope, this will be the first time since I started." All the boxes, ticked. Damien took a neck strip and wrapped it around him.

"What's your name?"

"Jordan." Jordan had kept his eyes and chin down the whole time as Damien fastened the cape into place. He started combing Jordan's hair out. The forelock reached just under his nose. The hair at the back flopped over and covered the cape's buttons. Jordan tensed. Both Damien and Jordan knew that among the questions asked, one was noticeably missing: How would you like your haircut today?

Of course, Damien still asked. The trick was playing with the answer. If the client responded with detailed instructions (they almost never did), Damien maneuvered them into giving him discretion. More typically, they did not give detailed instructions. Instead, they provided a set of general, vague guidelines that, while conveying the spirit of what they wanted, literally could be construed to apply to a high and tight or a feathered mod cut.

"Oh you know, just clean it up," Jordan responded. Perfect. "I like it a little longer." Slight interference, but manageable.

"I can clean it up, for sure. We'll leave you something to play with." The vague response had the same level of generality as Jordan's vague instructions: He could get a high and tight or a feathered mod cut. Jordan knew it, too. If a client—if Jordan—spoke up, I'm sorry, I just want to make sure we're on the same page . . . . Damien would probably heed the warning. These matters were delicate. But often, the client did not speak up. They heard the vague "we'll leave you with something to play with," clenched their butt cheeks, and gritted their teeth. Jordan did not speak up.

Jordan had the look of a restrained lamb waiting for his shearing. The tumble of brunette locks obscured his face. There was no Jordan at all. Just a mop sticking out of a black-and-white pinstriped cape. Damien grabbed his Oster's, attached a #1 blade, and clicked them on. The loud whir startled Jordan a little. He tried to conceal the shake, but Damien saw it. With the clippers in one hand and the comb in another, Damien lifted a flap of curls at the nape and set the metal teeth at the bottom.

Damien paused just for a moment, nearly imperceptible. Only the whir of the clippers filled the shop. At the base of Jordan's nape, his fuzz curled and grew into a long tapered tail. The clippers' teeth rested just below. Damien pushed the clippers up. Crzzzzzzzzzz. A sheaf of shorn locks padded the top of the clippers, like grain traveling up a conveyor belt. In the clippers' wake, a pelt of 1/8th stubble.

Jordan gulped. "That feels pretty short."

"It's a clean-up, remember?" Damien disarmed. Jordan didn't respond back to that. Damien ran the clippers up the back again. Crzzzzzz. Hair tumbled onto the floor into thick brown clumps. Crzzzzzz. He finished the back and moved onto the sides. He quickly removed Jordan's sideburn. Inches cascaded down the cape, resting into a puddle in Jordan's lap. Jordan gulped again, but he stayed silent. He folded Jordan's left ear and removed the thick padding that covered Jordan's lobes. The puddle grew into a small mound of dark brown fur. The right side got the same treatment.

Jordan now had a very awkward undercut. The mop on top flowed over the close-cropped sides. From the clippers' work on the sides, his hair only flowed over for a few inches, greatly mismatching the bangs that snaked down past his nose.

Damien took the clippers and comb and lifted a section of brown locks lapping over the left side of Jordan's head. At least three inches poked pasted the comb's teeth. Damien slide the blade over the comb. Tchttttttttt, tchtttttttt, as metal met plastic, and the lopped locks added to the pile. He kept working around Damien's head, connecting the sides to the top.

With the sides connected, it was time for the first big reveal. He walked around to the front of the chair. Jordan, too timid, too shocked, to face the eyes of his butcher kept his gaze downcast. Damien lifted the bangs with his comb, a couple of inches from Jordan's hairline, and ran the clippers over. Tchtttttt, tchttttttt. The heavy curls sailed through the air and plopped into Jordan's lap. When Damien removed the comb, the bangs flopped down just above eye-brow length.

Of course, this was all still too long. Damien trade the #1 attachment for a #3 and went around to the crown. A bushel of locks still swirled around Jordan's cowlick despite Damien's efforts to connect the sides to the top. There was just too much hair. Resting the clippers to the right of Jordan's crown, parallel to his hairline, Damien plowed the clippers' teeth up and over the cowlick and lower part of the crown. The shorn fuzz showed through, still plush and thick, but noticeably reduced compared to the jungle that grew toward the front.

Jordan must have felt a slight breeze on his crown. "Huh, th—this sure is a clean up." He broke off in a nervous chuckle.

"You're going to look great." Despite all Damien's manipulation, he at least meant that. He rested the clippers again on the right side of Jordan's head, just another inch closer to the front and ran the clippers again, clearing a path of cropped brown pelt. Then, he took the comb and lifted Jordan's hair a couple inches back from the hairline, dug the clippers in, and pushed back. Curls rained onto Jordan's shoulders, down the cape, joining the mountain of clipped curls and lopped locks. Jordan fidgeted, sending three-quarters of the pile onto the floor.

All that now remained were the bangs at the front. They certainly had to be reduced but with scissors to taper into something longer or mowed down with the #3 for a uniform clippered look? Damien favored the latter option but would play it by ear. He ruffled Jordan's bangs a bit. "Keep the bangs or no? I can take it down with scissors or just run the clippers over it."

The entire process stupefied Jordan. He'd been so shocked by the shearing that he could barely acknowledge the question. "Oh, ummm," he sputtered.

Damien took charge. "You know what, the clippers will look great." Without giving Jordan an opportunity to correct him, Damien plunged the clippers into the front. Two inches of bangs fell to the cape. Jordan's jaw clenched. The clippers pressed on, taking more strips of hair until the top was reduced to 3/8ths of an inch. A nice short clipped top with tight sides. The cropped looked highlighted Jordan's cheekbones. Damien ran a hand over the top, feeling the soft, almost-bristly fuzz. "Yeah, it suits you really well."

Jordan grimaced slightly. Damien cleaned up the neckline and made some additional passes to ensure strays were caught and the flicked off the cape. Jordan fumbled for words. "So, umm, how—ummm, how much—"

"This one's on me." Jordan didn't smile back, but he did look great with the shorn look. It was just the shock. "Hey, go on, give it a rub. You look great."

Jordan obeyed. One corner of his mouth turned up but refused to join in a full-fledged smile. "Thanks." He turned and left.

Damien began cleaning up tools and packing away supplies for closing. The door chimed again. He had forgotten to turn the lock after Damien. "Hey, sorry, we're closed. Just had the last one of the day."

"No time for one more?"

Damien turned around to see another young man with a slightly overgrown buzz cut. "There's always tomorrow—," Damien started. The young man looked familiar. Yes, a couple months ago, Damien gave him the barber's choice treatment, sending his silky chocolate locks to the barber shop floor. Matt.

Matt grinned. His eyes didn't share the smile. "No, I think it'll be tonight."

TO BE CONTINUED

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