Class Trip ’95 (Part 2) by KF_NDN

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Chapter 2 â€" The Barbershop

The afternoon hung heavy over the small town. The sun had drained the color from the facades, and the asphalt shimmered.
The four of them came together — Jonas, Robin, Max, and Leo — each with a casual excuse for why they’d join the group later. Their steps echoed between the narrow rows of houses until they found the plain storefront.

Gentlemen’s Barber, the sign read in white letters on faded blue paint. The glass was dull with tiny scratches, and behind it, there was movement — at first only blurred.
When they opened the door, the smell of shaving soap, metal, and dust met them. A neon tube on the ceiling hummed thinly, evenly.

The room was smaller than they had expected: two red vinyl chairs, large mirrors hanging at slight angles from hooks. On the counter lay scissors, clippers, combs, bottles filled with clear liquid. The hum of a running machine vibrated through the air.

The younger of the two barbers — maybe mid-twenties, blond, wiry — stood behind a customer. In the chair sat a slim boy in a black shirt, his hair bright green. The sides had grown out wild, the rest combed up into a wide mohawk. Three of the skinheads leaned against the wall, Andi and Rico among them. One held a soda, the others watched, laughed, and muttered comments.

"Look at that — the rainbow’s getting brave," one said with a smirk.
The barber replied calmly, "He wanted something new. And he’s getting it."

He lifted the green crest upright with a comb, held the ends between thumb and forefinger, and cut off a piece with the scissors. Then another. The severed hair fell soundlessly onto the cape, losing — by chance — neon-bright strands that caught the light.
"Do it properly, Jan," Andi called from the back.
"I am," said the barber without looking up. "I just started."

The comb ran through the crest again, the scissors clicked, each snip slicing through the quiet hum of neon and voices. Shorter and shorter, until the mohawk stood blunt, no longer than a finger’s width. Then the barber switched on the clippers — a deep, droning buzz — and ran them calmly along the middle, letting the metal teeth dance over the green tips.

The boys watched as the rest of the hair fell away like fine dust. The green tone faded, dulled to gray, then to bare scalp.
"Go on," Rico murmured, "finish it." The barber reached for a smaller clipper, ran it over the head without a guard — a steady, quick pattern. The buzz rose and fell in rhythm. Then came a brief silence; only the ticking of a clock filled the room.

He took a metal bowl, whipped up foam smelling of lemon soap, and brushed it on. White streaks spread over the remaining green. The boy blinked, silent, searching somewhere between defiance and composure.
"All smooth, yeah?" the barber asked.
The customer hesitated, then nodded.

The sharp hiss of the razor began — a steady, almost soothing sound. With each stroke, green‑white foam mixed and fell onto the cape. The skins murmured comments, laughed, grunted approval like at a goal in a football match.

At last, the barber wiped away the leftover foam. The boy in the chair exhaled audibly. His head gleamed smooth; in the wall of mirrors, he almost looked like another person.
"Well, that’s clean," Andi said softly, satisfied.
"Like a different guy," someone muttered behind him.

The ex‑punk laughed awkwardly, ran his hand over the smooth back of his head. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Then he stood, glanced at the mirror, shrugged. "Feels… light, somehow."

The green remnants lay in tufts on the floor, mixed with white streaks of foam. The smell of soap and metal filled the room.
Jonas felt his throat go dry. Leo watched, mouth slightly open.
Robin leaned forward a bit, whispered, "That was intense."
"Yeah," Max said barely audibly. "Intense — but kind of… good."

The barber hung up the clippers, wiped his hands, and looked at them briefly.
"Who’s next?" he asked quietly — not demanding, just curious.
No one answered.

Andi smiled faintly, folded his arms. "Think it over. That’s how it starts."

The electric hum of the machine faded, resting on the metal table. Outside, the sun blazed white against the shop window, and in its reflections Jonas suddenly saw that the barber’s chair was empty — yet still seemed to move.

To be continued.

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