Taking the Train in a New Direction by Lemon

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I noticed him the first time I saw him. I take the 8:12 train to downtown every weekday. Sometimes, I take the 8:06 or the 8:18. It just depends when I get walk out the door—and whether I feel like like jogging to the platform to make up for lost time. I see a rotating cast of characters. When someone new appears, I wonder, "Did she just get a new gig? Did he change his work hours so now he gets in at 8:30 instead of 7?" What if, like me, this new passenger decided to take the 8:18 today instead of each of our usual times, a chance encounter with a low probability of future occurrence. Questions like these buzzed in my head when I first saw him.

He had a helmet of straight, thick, dark brown hair that swept over his emerald-green eyes and lapped at his collar. Winter was thawing, but the air still had a bite, so he wore a knit sweater over his button-down. He stared at his phone, earbuds in place. Occasionally, he'd rake a hand through his mop, and it would stubbornly flop back down. I got off before him.

Over the next few weeks, I saw him a few more times. I realized he was more of an 8:18 rider than a regular on the 8:12 train. We could have shared a train car more times than I noticed, but at some point, everyone blends into the background. He blended into the background.

Cool breezes soon gave way to warm, sticky mornings as summer began stirring. The knit sweaters were folded in the closet, and my cotton dress shirt clung lightly to the skin of my back. The 8:18 train rolled into the platform, and I hopped aboard. I cracked open my latest book to the thrum of wheels on track. Three stops in, I saw him again. His helmet of chocolate brown had been reduced to a sculpted coif. The sides were clipper-short. The crown had been similarly clippered, although slightly longer than the sides, maybe an inch. From the crown to the forelock, his hair was left progressively longer so that his bangs still looked long and full, sweeping over his eyes.

Seeing him sport such a look, one that expressed a range of lengths and textures, I wondered if he and I might have something in common: a love of haircuts. I never managed to do anything with my hair like my fellow passenger. I had wavy, nearly bushy, hair that I sometimes blow-dried out or left in its natural curl, but I'd always admired haircuts. I stared at his crown, intent on the uniform hedge of hairs and faded into the longer length. I noticed his scalp around his ears and newly exposed neckline. He glanced over at me, and our eyes connected. Embarrassed, I broke contact and glanced back down at my book, but during the rest of the ride, I stole an occasional glance. I didn't want him to catch me again, but I couldn't help but stare. When I get off, I didn't look over at him. Too risky.

Over the next week or two, I tried to catch the 8:18 if I could so as to increase my chances of seeing him again. I was careful not to let my eyes linger too long, but I'm not daft: I am sure he noticed me looking. I can only hope he classified my behavior as glancing and not ogling. I kept to myself and my book. The following Friday, I took the 8:18 train again. As usual, I chose an empty two-seat row and sat next to the window. He got on, and I pretended not to notice. Moments later, I felt the presence of a passenger taking the aisle seat next to me. I peeked to my right. I noticed the signature forelock falling over those emerald-green eyes. I went back to my book. He stared at his phone. We sat in silence, but as my stop approached, I realized I'd have to engage with him. "Excuse me, I'm the next stop," I croaked.

He turned his head slightly and nodded. I looked at him too long to be polite, but I couldn't help it. I had never seen him this close. I wanted to run by fingers through the thick curtain of hair and push them back until the hairs of his crown barely rose above my fingers, then I'd rub the bristles at his nape... I coughed as the train came to a stop, and I started to shuffle past. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine," he said.

The next Monday, I took the 8:18 again. I took my usual seat. I squandered my chance last time to strike up a conversation. I hoped he got onto the 8:18 again today, the same car, the same seat... Just like last time. I opened my book, but I didn't read a word. The train arrived at his platform. I saw him walk through the doors. My heart raced, I gulped, licked my lips. But he didn't come to my seat. He took up his usual spot near the doors, holding a hand strap. He stared at his phone. I went back to my book.

Tuesday. 8:18 train. I didn't see him. I missed him on Wednesday and Thursday, too. I began to feel silly, purposely taking the same train every day and hoping to see this man hop aboard. Friday, I saw him. My mouth went dry, my palms sweated. Whether because of bravery or stupidity, I stared at him this time, hoping he'd catch me in the act, rather than look at my book pretending not to notice. He didn't smirk or smile. He just walked over to my two-seat row and took the aisle. As he approached, I slowly shifted my gaze to my book. I heard him sigh when he sat. "So, are you going to say anything to me this time?"

I froze. "I— I— s-said something last time." I looked over to him. He looked about thirty, but I was always bad at guessing ages.

He grinned slightly. His bangs hid one green eye. "Oh, does saying 'excuse me' count?"

I grinned back. "I guess not." I put out my hand. "Kyle."

He shook it. "Kevin." He raised an eyebrow. "Two Ks next to each other, eh?"

"Yeah, two Ks, I guess so." I chuckled.

"So, what are you reading?"

I explained the book to him. A sci-fi thriller, in which a disgraced detective and ex-convict work together to solve an interstellar murder. I babbled, each sentence building my courage to move to the topic I was most interested in. "I noticed you a few weeks ago," I said abruptly.

He cocked an eyebrow again. "Oh, really?"

I looked down to avoid his eyes. Every swallow felt deliberate. I had never shared with anyone before how watching haircuts made me feel. Embarrassment and shame—their sources unknown—colored my feelings, locking them deep within me, unspoken. Until. "I mean... I noticed you a few weeks ago... when you cut your hair."

He raked a hand through his hair, and I shivered. I hoped he didn't notice, but he probably did. "Well, then you probably also noticed that I need it cut again. Do you want to come with me tomorrow?"

My heart quickened. But for the babble of the other riders, the clack of wheels on track, the periodic announcements, I would have heard the sound of pumping blood roar in my ears. No. I couldn't. I didn't even know this guy. To go with this man to get his haircut, to watch the barber run the clippers up his nape, over his crown, trim the ends of his lush forelock... "Okay. S-sure."

He said I should take his number before the train pulled to my stop. I did and left. As I walked to work, I composed a simple message, just my name, so he'd have my number, too. My thumb hovered over the send symbol. I tapped it before I could think too hard and put my phone in my pocket. My heart raced, and I cut my walk time in half. As the elevator ascended, I checked my phone again. Kevin had already texted back: "We can take train tmr too. Same line. Instead of downtown, go southbound. I'll get on at 6:44pm, whatever time that is for you." As I read, another text floated up: "And ur getting a haircut too tmr ;)"

I barely concentrated the whole day at work. I barely slept that night.

The next day, I fidgeted around the house until dark. I calculated that the 6:44 train at his stop meant the 7:00 train for me. He had already texted me earlier to let me know he was on time. I responded with a thumbs-up and a simple "see you soon." Part of me wanted to back out, ghost Kevin, and forget this whole thing, but he had my number, and I'd run into him again. As much as I feared what the morning would hold, I hated confrontation more. The train pulled to, and I climbed on. I spotted Kevin—this time, in my usual spot, the window seat. I sat next to him. "Good evening."

He turned his torso toward me. "Hi."

I swallowed. "So... you're into haircuts, too?"

He sat motionless for a second, then sighed. "Yeah, I guess you could say so. I'm, umm... Well, I'm sure it's the same for you. It's a bit... taboo. I've, umm, never talked about it with anyone else before."

"Me neither," I added, excited someone else knew how I felt.

"But," he continued. "A few weeks ago, I found this shop online. He runs a barbershop, and sometimes, on Saturday, he keeps the shop open late at night for 'special' haircuts." He saw me grimace. "It's nothing sexual. Just, you know, for people who are, umm, into haircuts. There are only two rules." I bit my lip and nodded. He smiled. "You need an appointment, and it's barber's choice. Don't worry. I made an appointment for you, too." He gave a quick wink.

I bounced my leg nervously. We both shared a little about our 'secret,' but it didn't feel natural to discuss it aloud, better left mostly unspoken between us. He asked me some questions about my latest book, which was sweet. I asked him what he did for fun. He told me about a new videogame he bought and his runs at a local park. Mid-conversation, he cocked his head to listen to the announcement, then tapped my shoulder. "This is us." I followed him off.

We walked a few blocks, made a turn, and passed several storefronts: a second-hand, "vintage" clothing shop, a ceramics studio hosting a wine-and-pottery night, and a stationery store featuring hand-pressed blockprints and manually typeset greeting cards. Up ahead, I noticed a shop emitting a faint white glow, like a TV set showing a white screen. As we approached, I noticed the vinyl decal on the extrawide front window: BARBER SHOP. Wordlessly, we both stopped. Three barbers spread across five stations worked on the heads of the last clients of the day. Cut hair littered the floor, like lawn clippings that hadn't been bagged yet. Two clients must have been regulars: only a light dust of clipped hair sat on the shoulders of their capes. The third customer had apparently just sat in the chair, his bare cape and bushy head signaling that the haircut had not begun. The barber held a cordless Andis with a detachable metal blade. His other hand held a wide-tooth comb. He lightly brushed the front of the young man's hair back, testing the strength and length of the strands. After each pass, the bushy mess flopped back into place. The barber lifted the bangs with the comb one last time, but didn't let them go and placed the clippers on the man's forehead. He pushed back and bundles of shorn hair tumbled over the sides of his client's head and plummeted to the cape and floor. We watched several more passes of the clippers, each run drawing out the man's youth, sharpening his cheekbones.

Kevin started to move again. I followed. We didn't discuss this moment we shared. Earlier, on the train, we'd already exchanged our signs and countersigns, recognizing the other as an initiate. We didn't have to talk about the sacred ritual we both witnessed: the young man being shorn of his locks. I wanted to ask how much farther, but I thought it a silly question. Nothing would change our course. We wouldn't turn around or re-route. We had a mission to complete. Asking the question would signal fear or doubt. After a few more blocks, we reached a barber's pole at the entrance of a walk-up. "The pole's light is off," I commented. I felt stupid breaking the silence by stating the obvious.

"Oh no, shall we turn around and go home?" He toyed, his face a picture of mock-surprise, then laughed. "Yeah, it's technically 'after hours,' remember? Come on. I'll go up first, so you don't have to be scared." I followed and our footsteps echoed in the narrow stairway. In the soft light, I looked at Kevin's back, admired up close his clippered nape, the taper growing out after several weeks without a cut. We reached the landing and saw two doors. One was unmarked. The other was glass with a thick metal frame. A "closed" sign hung on the door, but we could see lights within. Kevin pressed a buzzer and waited. A moment later, a man sporting a crew cut and white barber's smock appeared and turned the lock. He opened the door and waved his hand, gesturing us to come in.

I followed Kevin inside, and we sat in two of the three waiting chairs, flush against the same wall as the door. The barber closed and locked the door behind us. To the right, a window looked out onto the street below. To the right, carefully set far enough back to give the patrons privacy from passersby, was a Belmont midcentury barber's chair, presently occupied. Behind the chair was the barber's workstation, equipped with multiple sizes of shears and combs. Various sets of corded clippers and a lone hair dryer hung from hooks on the side of the station. Above the workstation, a larger mirror hung on the wall. Opposite it, in an identical position, was another mirror, giving both client and barber a view of the haircut. The walls were wood-paneled. The stale air smelled of hair tonic and aftershave. The linoleum floor—a black-and-white checker pattern—was spotless, save for the ring of hair around the Belmont chair. We arrived at the end of the haircut. Two-, three-, four-inch-long dirty blonde locks rested on the floor and cape. In the chair, rather stone-faced, was a man just entering middle age. Despite his fading youth, his hairline looked full. He likely walked in sporting a grown-out gentleman's cut. I could imagine the clippers slicing into the thick padding and plopping it onto his lap. I saw the comb lift his forelock, holding it in place for brutal execution. But we'd missed all that. Just so. The barber noted, "There's a fifteen-minute gap between appointments. You're early." He said the words without reproach or annoyance. It was just a matter of fact. He would not be rushed.

The barber snipped the last few stray hairs and delicately gathered the cape, bunching it so hair wouldn't spill on the man's shoes. Once the sheet was lifted to safety, he dumped the hair on the floor—another plump pile to join the rest of the clippings—dusted the man's neck, and blow-dried any remaining strands clinging to his button-down shirt and slacks. The barber led the man, who had prepaid for his haircut, to the door and let him out, careful to lock the door once more. He pushed the hair into a pile, brushed the pile into a dustpan, and dumped it into a tin garbage can. Without comment, he went into the back of the shop, hidden. My stomach knotted. If the shop didn't have waiting chairs, I might have fallen, my knees buckling under me. My hands shook slightly. I turned to look at Kevin just in time to see his Adam's apple bob after a large swallow. He'd been here once before and still the shop affected him. I didn't dare to speak. The barber had set the tone: he was not unkind, but he was the master of this temple, and he wordlessly requested silence. We respected that seal. We heard the cars driving down below and an occasional honk. We heard the hum of conditioned air blowing through the vents.

The barber emerged like the priest prepared to the deliver the homily, the flock silent and obedient and hungry. He looked to be in his fifties, the crew cut wispy and nearly all-white. He was neither thin nor overweight—like a drill sergeant 10 years into retirement or a little league coach who drank a few beers after work instead of exercising. Thin lips and full cheeks accented his face. The blue of his irises was watery and exposed the direction of his gaze. There was no mistaking when his beady pupils had trained on you. He stared at me as he grabbed the cape—a thin white cloth with red pinstripes—and fluttered it in the air, loosening any stubborn hairs, before draping it over his arm. Without the cape covering the chair, I saw the yellow-orange upholstery of the seat cushion and back. The polished chrome armrests matched the footrest. The barber slapped a thick hand on the faux leather. His gaze had not moved from me. "You're new here." It was a statement, not a question. "You're next."

Until I stood, I was unsure my legs would support my weight, but I managed to shuffle to my feet without falling over. I shuffled to the chair, which faced away from the workstation and toward the waiting chairs, nearly tripping as I maneuvered over the footrest and rested into the Belmont chair. I gripped the armrests, fearing I'd slip onto the floor. Barber's choice, Kevin had said. The phrase echoed in my mind. The soft cotton cape fluttered in the air and covered my chest and knees. The cape hung loosely over my shoulders as the barber tucked a neck towel into the collar of my shirt. I felt him grab the cape's corners and pull them tightly around my neck before fastening the cape into place with a clip. From the mirror hanging on the other wall, just above Kevin, I saw my reflection: a ball of bushy brown hair sticking out from a white cape.

Caped, I noticed my hair looked longer. At home, getting ready in front of the bathroom sink, I often wondered whether it was time for a haircut, but in the barber's chair, vulnerable, everything looked unruly, untamed, long. My wavy hair fell just above my eyes. Straightened, it would have threatened to tickle my nose. The hair at my name curled over the cape. My sideburns looked bushy. I glanced down to Kevin. One corner of his mouth was upturned into a sly smirk. He would enjoy the show, just as I would in his position. I wanted to brush my fingers through his hair... I wanted to snip off those long, boyish bangs.

The whir of clippers interrupted my fantasy. The barber palmed the top of my head, holding it firmly and straight ahead. The cold teeth of the clippers touched the base of my left sideburn and sailed upward. Clumps of brown hair rolled like tumbleweeds onto the cape. Behind each wave of the clippers was pale white skin, the bristles revealing the scalp beneath. After several passes, he tilted my head slightly and planted the clippers at the base of my nape, to the left. I felt the clippers travel up and curve up and over my left ear, tumbling more wavy brown hair to the cape. The right side received the same treatment before he returned to the nape. This time, he went straight up. Cool air blew across the back of my head. The sides of my head had been reduced to a short stubble, likely one-eighth of an inch, maybe shorter. A thick pad of hair still rested across my parietal ridge, and of course, the top was still untouched. He grabbed a large comb, placed it on my temple, perpendicular to the floor, and wavy locks of hair poked through the comb's teeth. He rested the clippers at the bottom of the comb and sent them upward, slicing through any hair sticking out of the comb's teeth. Thick chunks of brown hair joined the growing mound in my lap. Comb, buzz. Comb, buzz. Comb, buzz. He worked around my head. I noticed the shorn sides starting to blend into the top. I looked like a hedge being sculpted as he squared the hair on the ridge of my head.

He paused to set down the comb and turned to his station. I heard the detachable blade of the clippers pop off and be replaced. He returned behind me, and I watched in the mirror as he rewound the cord around his arm and held a massive set of Osters. He placed a thumb and forefinger on each temple and tilted my head slightly forward before taking the clippers to my crown. The clippers screamed as inch-long waves plopped onto the ground. My heart rate increased. My crown and cowlick must be so short, but I wasn't sure of the length. I couldn't see the back of my head. Content he'd cut every stray hair at the crown, he replaced the blade again and returned with a wide-tooth comb. The barber brushed my hair from front to back with the comb, causing it to stand up. I looked like I had a white boy's afro. I looked bushy, unkempt, unruly. My hair begged for the clippers. My gut twisted.

After several passes of the comb, he stuck it into my hairline and lifted it slightly, about an inch and a half above my scalp. Anything longer than that length shot up over the teeth of the comb. He ran the clippers over it, mowing it down. Chzzzzzzzz. Another section, another crop ready for harvest. Chzzzzzzzz. Hair spilled over my eyes like confetti. Congratulations! You're getting a haircut, young man! Section, cut. Chzzzzzzzzzz. Between the falling hair, I could barely make out what was happening, but I saw my reflection in the mirror. A short hedge of hair sat on the front of my head as the comb traveled back, flattening everything in its path with the hungry clippers. I glanced at Kevin again. Now, both corners of his mouth were upturned into a wide grin. He actively slowed his breath, every inhale noticeably inflating his chest before a deliberate and controlled exhale through his nose, nostrils slightly flared.

The barber finished the unruly locks at the back of my head and then addressed the corners. He dampened my hair, rubbed tonic in it, and blow-dried it back. He went over everything again, ensuring a flat surface. Still silent, he handed me a mirror. I knew he didn't expect me to give corrections or say, "Looks good." He already knew it looked good, and he wasn't going to take corrections. The sole purpose of the mirror was so that I could look at myself more closely. I lifted the mirror. My clippered sides transitioned into plusher hair on the ridge of my head, all while maintaining a square shape. On top, my hair had been cut in uniform rows without any sign of clipper marks. I ran a hand up the back of my head and felt the friction of my sandpaper stubble. I glided my fingers over my crown, feeling the shorn hair, and kept going forward as it lengthened toward the front. The plush top felt both soft and prickly.

I glanced at Kevin. He'd stood up and approached the chair. We didn't share a word. He took a hand and rubbed my head, almost like I was a pet dog greeting him after he returned from the office. We both bit back gentle moans. After rubbing my head, he raked his fingers through the top, fixing it back into place. The barber removed the cape and deposited the hair onto the floor. Kevin and I took our seats again as the barber prepared the chair for his next customer. After sweeping up the hair and brushing down the clippers, he retreated to the back once more. My tongue was dry and heavy. Half-baked sentences streamed through my head. Kevin, shoulders forward, turned his head to me. "You look awesome." He swallowed. "Watching that. Was awesome."

I looked over. The seal broken, I blurted, "Can I touch your hair?" His eyes widened slightly, his cheeks blushed, and he nodded. Hands shaking, I reached over and grazed his forelock with my fingernails, brushing against the silky locks spilling over the back of my hand. I pushed back, sinking my fingers in his hair and inched toward the crown, the lush forest giving way to the cropped, but still quite plush, crown. The crown was probably a couple of inches by now, having grown out. I cupped the back of his hand and brushed up and down. The bristles of a few weeks ago had grown into fuzz. I returned to the top, ruffling his hair, as he had done mine, and fixed the strands back into place. We both smiled, I withdrew my hand, and we returned to silence.

The barber returned and fixed the cape on his arm once more. He didn't need to speak. All three of us could deduce the next patron by process of elimination. Kevin stood, projecting a visage of confidence, but in the tentativeness of his steps, the looseness of his fists, I detected uneasiness, anxiousness, excitement, all the emotions that swirled in the pit of my stomach and drained to my feet. He eased onto the yellow-orange cushion of the Belmont chair as if he'd ran several miles the day before and was still a bit sore. He rested his gaze just above my head, avoiding my eyes and locking onto the mirror instead. The cape fluttered through the air again and covered his chest and knees, the two corners resting loosely on his shoulders as the barber tucked a small towel into his collar and fastened the cape into place. With the cape in place, his mop looked far too long. As if to emphasize the point, the barber combed Kevin's hair forward, and the tip of his bangs nearly reached his upper lip. I thought he might leave Kevin like that, but then he grabbed a few hair clips and clipped the hair up, ensuring the locks didn't flop over the sides or into Kevin's eyes. He took the forelock, twisted it into a sort of bun, and snapped it secure.

The clippers whirred once more. From the looks of the blade, it was likewise one-eighth of an inch or less. He started at the base of Kevin's left sideburn and glided the clippers up. Small wads of short brown fuzz slid down the cape onto Kevin's lap. As the clippers approached the top, the barber deftly flicked them away, starting the blend of the sides to the top. He did the right side and turned his attention to the back. He palmed Kevin's head and bent it forward before placing the clippers at the base of Kevin's nape and peeling off the overgrown fuzz there.

Now, the main event. Mane event, I smiled to myself. The top. The barber removed the hair clips, and Kevin's tresses flopped down. The barber once again combed out Kevin's hair, the curtain of bangs shielding his eyes. His bangs must have been at least eight inches. My eyes scanned his head, front to back. With his sides peeled, the crown was a bushy thatch. The roughly two-inch-long locks went in all directions. The barber had replaced the blade on the clippers for a longer attachment. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the back of Kevin's head and tilted it down, causing Kevin's bangs to sway. Then, he placed the whirring clippers to the left of Kevin's crown and plowed over it. Tufts of brown hair thudded on the linoleum floor. I almost gaped. The crown had been taken short, barely half an inch. Was Kevin getting flattened like me? The barber ran the clippers over the crown several times, ensuring a uniform length. Maybe he would give Kevin a long crewcut or an ivy league? Of course, Kevin couldn't have any better guesses. Barber's choice. I just assumed the barber would give the same cut, but perhaps that would ruin the fun of the experience, leaving with the same thing every time.

With the crown complete, the barber paused and looked at me. "How did you like the last haircut I gave him?"

I gawked a moment, nearly asking if he was speaking to me, but I quickly realized that was an assinine question. Of course, he was speaking to me. There was no one else. "Uh, I-, yes, I liked it."

"What did you like about it?" No smile, no expression, no insight into the questioner's intent. Just matter-of-fact.

I blushed slightly. "I, uh, liked the short sides. And the crown, taken short."

"And the bangs?"

"I, uh, liked the bangs, too. They looked, umm, I guess the word is boyish."

For the first time all evening, the barber gave a responsive expression, a slight smile. "Boyish. I thought so, too." The smile disappeared. "I didn't give you a boyish haircut." I nodded. "Do you want him boyish or do you want him like a man?"

I read between the lines of the question. My response would determine the fate of Kevin's hair. The barber had already taken the crown short. Despite cropping the crown to half an inch, the bangs were still salvageable. I was sure of the barber's skill. But, watching those long, luscious locks falling. I couldn't resist. Ucharacteristically, I folded my arms, adopting my haircut's persona, and smirked. "Make him a man."

The barber nodded. I couldn't see Kevin's eyes through the thick curtain of bangs. He kept his head bowed. His lips remained flat and neutral. Without changing the attachment, the barber planted the clippers on the left side of his head, near the crown, parallel to his hairline, so that a row of hair lay in the path of the clipper's teeth. The barber pushed the clippers forward, and a stream of four-inch-long locks cascaded down his head onto the cape. The severed strands were noticeably longer than any other pieces of hair in his lap. The barber reset the clippers, and I enjoyed watching the silky hair on Kevin's head being reduced row by row. The clipped pelt near the crown looked soft and plush. Another pass of the clippers and more locks tumbled below, thudding onto the cape. With each pass, the barber inched closer to Kevin's hairline, and the length of the hair grew progressively. The barber continued until only the thick curtain of bangs remained, clutching Kevin's hairline. The barber rested the clippers just above Kevin's left temple and mowed the clippers over Kevin's bangs, banishing the forelock to the pile below. The eight-inch-long lock crowned the mass of hair covering Kevin's lap. As the clippers continued across Kevin's hairline, his eyes were revealed. Head still bent, his eyes peeked at the mirror, and I saw the emerald green of his irises glow with fear, anxiety, and excitement. His hairline was still full but reduced to the same short fuzz across the rest of his scalp.

The barber made his finishing touches, ensuring no stray hairs escaped the clippers. Before the cape was removed, I stood and walked over to the chair, just as Kevin had done to me, and rubbed my hand over his shorn head. I relished each pass across the fuzzy fur on top of his head and slowly snaked my hand to his sides—the same sandpaper texture I sported. I stepped away. The barber removed the cape and dumped the hair while Kevin got out of the chair. His legs shook slightly. The barber guided us to the door, turned the lock, and let us out. Kevin must have prepaid for our appointments like the customer before us. We stepped outside into the narrow corridor, and the barber closed the door behind us. Not knowing what else to say, I mumbled, "Let me know how much I owe you." Kevin looked at me as if he hadn't understood a word I said. "For the haircut," I added.

He chuckled, looked down at his shuffling feet, and shook his head. "Nah, my treat." He raised his eyes to meet mine and grinned. "I can't believe you had him cut all my hair off. You were pretending to be Mr. Macho with that flattop."

I put up my hands, feigning ignorance, while giving a sheepish smile. "He just asked me a simple question. He chose your haircut, not me." We both laughed. He playfully punched me in the arm. Overcome and before the feeling passed, I reached up and rubbed his cropped hair, feeling the soft bristles beneath the pads of my fingertips. "I'm going to miss your longer hair. I do regret it a little." I swallowed. "But, you look really good." He turned to the stairs and started down. We walked back to the train in near silence, awed by the experience we had just shared. The train platform was nearly empty. The shearings had made both of us dizzy, so he worked up the courage to rub my head a few times while we waited for the train, and I returned the favor.

***

As the train slowed upon approaching my stop, he shifted in his seat, making room for my exit. I shuffled off, and after the train doors closed, the intoxication wore off and reality set in. I realized that in my stupefied state, I barely said goodbye. I quickly texted Kevin: "Thx for everything. Hope to see you soon." I waited on the platform, aching for an immediate response. My phone buzzed: "Drinks after work on Monday?" On the walk home and into the rest of the evening, I couldn't stop thinking about the feeling of Kevin's soft, clipped hair between my fingers—and touching it again over a cold beer in a dimly lit downtown bar.

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