A Man's Neck Needs To Breathe by Just_Me

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A Man’s Neck Needs to Breathe
(A Twilight Zone Episode That Never Aired)

Narrator: There is a town that time forgot. It doesn't appear on most maps, and exists just slightly outside our dimension — though you can find it, if you're looking for the right things. It has most of what a man needs, and some things he doesn't yet know he needs.

Jack Morrison went to Finnsville to close a deal. He failed at that. But he didn't leave empty-handed — and neither, eventually, did the town.

*****

"Cute town!"

I drove the whole six blocks and then did a u-turn. "Where’s Andy Griffith?"

I pulled in and parked. An ancient barber was leaning against his shop window, lighting a pipe.

"Good morning. Can you tell me…"

I flinched when he started talking. wasn’t expecting the booming bark that came out of the emaciated old fart. "He’s across the street, but you’re wasting your time. We don’t deal with folks who look like you around here."

I looked down quickly. Yep. Tie’s straight. Zipper’s up. I know my damned suit is fashionable as hell.

I patted my hair. It felt like everything was in place. "What the devil?"

He stared at me, and I got a chill. I swear, it felt like he was looking into my soul.

I had to look away.

"Look around. We do things a little different around here. Hell, we do things right."

For the first time, I noticed the people. Most of the men had on suits and ties. Their hair was short. Some were smoking pipes or cigars. There were fedoras everywhere.

Then I noticed the women. Short hair, lots of curls. Everyone looked like they had just stepped out of a beauty salon.

Why, she’s wearing gloves…and a hat! Really, gloves? In the summer? Then, A poodle skirt? What the hell?


My mind churned for a second. "Are you guys having a movie shot here? Is it Finnville Fifties Festival time?"

"Like I said, we do things right around here."

He took his hat off and scratched his head. Dear Jesus! I’ve never seen a man that bald. He doesn’t have an inch of hair over his ears!

He rumbled. "Been bald as an egg since I was nineteen."

I blushed. Me and my damned glass face. A total stranger is reading my mind as clearly as if I’d said it. Damn it!

I reached up and patted my thick hair. "Heck, I think I’d trade all of this hair to have a mustache like yours. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen a grander mustache."

He stroked his silver handlebar mustache in a move that told me he did it often.

"I reckon you’ll be able to grow a better one in a few years. I was in my forties before mine started filling out."

How the hell did he know I’ve never been happy with how my mustache grows?

I excused myself, and went to my appointment.

Like the barber said, they weren’t interested in doing business with me…and I couldn’t figure out why.

After getting dismissed at my appointment, I wandered around town, and kept feeling drawn to the barbershop. Visions of myself with short hair seemed to bombard my brain like a swarm of bees on a honeypot. I finally muttered, "To hell with it. I’m going."

Fortunately, I stubbed my toe, and the pain pulled me out of my trance. Jack, you are truly losing it. You’ve never had short hair, and always made fun of people who did wear short hair. You need to see a shrink.

I hopped to the car, and got the hell out of there.

I shot the finger at the town in my rearview mirror, muttering, "That’s a creepy-assed place. I hope I never see it again."

I couldn’t get a haircut off my mind over the next few weeks. I noticed every short haircut I passed, and judged it. "Could’ve gone shorter." "Looks like crap." "I wonder what that style would look like on me?"

I even dreamed about haircuts. Some were nightmares where I had no control and the barber was brutal. Others were sensual and sexual.

To say I was confused…well, that’s sorta like saying the Pope is Catholic. It just doesn’t cover the depth of what I went through.

I finally went to my normal stylist, and just about shocked her into a coronary.

"Take an inch off."

"What? I’ve been cutting your hair for damn near twenty years, and you’ve never let me cut more than a quarter inch off."

"Just do it, damn it."

I left feeling…dissatisifed. Sherry had done a good job…but it wasn’t the short hair I’d been dreaming of.

A month later, my wife was out of town for the weekend, and I found myself driving to Finnsville.

I walked in the shop, and for the first time in my life, saw a traditional barbershop from the inside. I stopped to savor the smell. I couldn’t identify what the smells were, but they smelled masculine. Traditional. Right.

Then I saw something that made me shiver as if a million bugs were crawling on my skin.

There was an altar in one corner. Heck, I don’t even know how to describe what was on the table. Was it an icon? A piece of art? A travesty?

It looked like an Aztec god had mated with an Egyptian goddess and some island idol. Together, the three had whelped this…thing. A stone face with a massive beak. Lapis eyes with obsidian pupils. Grass hair. Sticks for arms. A pleated white linen skirt.

It was standing on two human leg bones that had been inserted into a clay body.

Flowers and lit candles surrounded the…statue? I wasn’t sure what to call it. In front of the…thing…was a carved stone bowl that held a bunch of hair.

The old barber was still fiddling with his pipe. "Gonna put your hair in the bowl as soon as I’m done cutting it."

I pointed. "What is…?"

"Previous owner bought that from a Voodoo priestess a long time ago. Said the business would thrive as long as someone kept two candles burning all the time. Now, customers bring candles too."

I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

It felt like the…thing’s eyes followed me when I walked away. I shook my head. Jack, you’re losing it!

He brushed the chair off with the cape and barked, "Sit down."

It wasn’t a request.

I didn’t want to sit. My brain was screaming, Get your stupid ass out of here, NOW!

I started toward the door, on legs that were trembling so badly I could barely stand.

I somehow found myself sitting in that big porcelain chair, and had such a stupid thought when I sat. This chair is comfortable. I’d like to watch football while sitting in it.

Without a word, he put a pinstriped cape on meâ€"and shoved my head forward like it was on some kind of lever. He put a paper strip around my neck, and then cinched the cape tight.

Too tight. I felt like a damned mummy. That cape felt like it weighed a ton.

"Been waiting for you. You lasted longer than I thought you would."

What the hell? How did he know I’d be back when I would’ve bet you a million dollars I’d never step foot inside a barbershop??
I croaked, "Just a trim."

He shook his head. "My shop. My rules." Then he pointed at the mirror. "Take a look. You ain’t gonna recognize yourself when I’m done with this mess."

I couldn’t help but run my fingers through my hair. I’ll be damned lucky if I have any hair after this old turd gets through with me!

"Watch what you say about me. I ain’t got much nice to say about you either." Then he pumped the chair up a few times and turned it away from the mirror. I was looking directly at the…idol? Statue?

I couldn’t stand it. I found a crack in the paint to focus on.

The next thing I knew, he was running a comb through my hair.

He hit a tangle, and didn’t stop. My eyes watered. Damn! He’s gonna pull me bald-headed, instead of cutting my hair.

"These sides are going down to the skin. High white walls, straight up the sides. A man's neck needs to breathe."

Down to the skin? That’s not what I want!

I wanted to run, but it seemed like I was paralyzed. My mouth felt like I hadn’t had a sip of water in a month and my voice refused to work. However, my head was working fine. Stop, let me up, you crazy old bastard. Jack, what the hell have you got yourself into?

The old buzzard cleared his throat. "LOOK AT ME!"

I looked at him and he stared into my soul again. "This is what you want."

I stopped shaking and felt like I was in a trance. However, my mind kept yammering at me. Are you sure this isn’t what you want? Why are you here if it’s not? You knew what you were getting yourself into.

He lit his pipeâ€"again. I seemed to disappear into the smoke he was generating.

Clippers roared to life. They didn't hum; they growledâ€"and sounded like they were hungry…for my hair.

I shook like I was facing the electric chair, but still couldn’t move.

For the first time in my life, I felt the cold steel of ruthless, hair-hungry machinery touch my scalp. He didn't ease into it. He drove the clippers up the right side of my head with all the might in his body.
Zzzzzzzzzzt.
Those clippers chewed my hair off and a big hunk of hair fell in my lap.

The vibration rattled my brain. I felt the air hit my scalp instantly—a shocking cold where a second ago there had been thick, plush hair.

The biggest chunk of hair I’d ever seen fell on the cape and slid onto the floor. Before I could react, another one followed.

Then I felt a reaction in my groin. What the hell, Jack? You’re getting horny getting a haircut? That’s just freaky!

I couldn’t take my eyes off the hair. I knew there was no hair left on the side of my head where those clippers had violated me.

My god! No one has seen my scalp since I was a baby.

I felt like a mule had kicked me in the gut. I wanted to puke, but still couldn’t move, except to pant like a dog on a hot summer’s day as I watched more hair pile up around the base of the chair.

Deal with it, Jack. You got yourself into this mess, and you’re in for a helluva shock when you get to see yourself again.

Suddenly, the roaring stopped. The silence was deafening.

I blinked, sweat stinging my eyes. Was he done?

He had stopped to relight his pipe. I’m sitting here with a half-bald head, looking like a lunatic, and he’s worried about his damned pipe? What the hell?

I fumed for a few seconds, then curiosity got the best of me. I reached up to touch my head, and his eyes caught mine. "No, no, no."

He puffed two or three times, took the pipe out of his mouth and glared at it, as if daring the pipe to go out again. He grunted, "Damn it, I’ve been smoking for seventy years. You’d think I’d know how to keep the damned thing lit."

I smarted off, without thinking. "If you haven’t figured it out in seventy years, you’re not gonna figure it out. Might as well give it up."

He froze for a second, then slowly turned his head toward me. His eyes were slits and he was not happy. I noticed his bushy white eyebrows, of all things.

He barked. "Not gonna happen."

Then he wiped both sides of his mustache and I lost all focus, except for his gleaming silver handlebars. He picked up the clippers again and they seemed louder, even more hungry.

He ran them even higher than he had before. "I reckon that’ll learn you not to be a smart-ass. Your ma should’ve learned you to respect your elders."

The mule kicked me again, and I closed my eyes. I’m going to look like a goddamned freak! I’m looking at six months of sleeping on the couch, and no sex. Hell, maybe I’ll never have sex again. She might be so disgusted with me that she divorces me.

It was like he was reading my mind againâ€"and he was standing behind me! He growled, "You’ll love it…and she’ll love it. Anyway, she ain’t never told you couldn’t have short hair, has she?"

He finished up my right side, and the clippers went silent. The scratch of the match made me jumpâ€"and irritated me. I wanted to scream, "Just finish the damned haircut already. It’s gonna take all day at this rate."

He blew a stream of smoke at me and picked up a box of King Edward cigars. "Might as well join me."

It wasn’t a question.

"I don’t smoke"

He just looked me in the eyes, and I found myself reaching for a cigar without ever deciding to do it.

Once I had the cigar in my hand, it was like my body already knew what to do. I took the cellophane off, and confidently stuck it in my mouth. He lit another match, and I knew what to do.

He picked up the clippers again, and attacked the back of my head. The buzzing of the clippers had a hypnotic quality that made it hard for me to focus on what he was doing. One minute, I was acutely aware of how high the clippers were going. The next, I realized he’d stopped to light his pipe again. I didn’t know how much time had passed. It could’ve been ten minutes or ten hours.

Finally, the clippers went silent for good. But he wasn't done.

I fought the urge to reach up and touch my neck when he picked up some scissors and started cutting the top. His hands flew fast. It almost felt like a hummingbird darting around my head.

He cut and combed. Then cut and combed some more. I wondered if I was gonna have any hair left.

Finally, he combed it all into place. A big bottle showed up in his hand, and he poured a bunch of liquid onto his other hand.

I found my voice. "That smells good. What is it?"


"Wildroot. Drugstore’s got it. Get some."
He rubbed his hands together and then slapped them on the top of my head. He messed up the carefully combed hair he’d just arranged and rubbed like he was trying to reshape my skull.

Then he put some more Wildroot in his hand, and slapped ‘em together again.

I jumped when his rough palms slapped the bald sides and he worked the tonic into my exposed scalp. It stung like a bitch.

He combed the hair back. Hard. Plastering it down.

I jumped when his hands rubbed onto what I knew were the bald sides.
I thought, How the hell does something feel weird as an alien and feel good too?

"That damned beard’s gotta go," he grumbled while wiping his hands on a towel. "Looks like crap with my haircut."

He picked up a straight razor (I knew what that was) and then started rubbing it on a big belt.

"What are you doing?"

"My, my, my. You don’t know what a razor strop is? No wonder you ain’t got no manners. If your Pa’d taken one of these to your backside a few times, you’d know how to act."

He dang near scared me to death when he laid the chair back without saying a word. He put some hot water in a mug, and worked up a lot of shaving cream, them spread it over my face.

He pulled my head back, and I felt like I was on a guillotine, and the murderous look of the straight razor told me he could hurt me badly. I shivered.

He patted my shoulder. "Ain’t never slit a throat in sixty years of barbering." Then he started talking to himself. "Should I leave him a mustache?" He stepped back. "Gonna do it. He likes mine, but he’s gotta grow up some more before he gets a beauty like mine. A pencil-thin it is."

I wanted to scream! I hate a goddamned pencil-thin. They’re pretentious, and look stupid. I’m not a sleazy used car salesman!

Then my inner voice spoke up. You could be, with that cigar in your mouth. Is this what you want?

He barked. "You’ll like it. Guaranteed."

A fog settled in my head…then I realized I was thinking, "Maybe he’s right. Give it a chance. He’s the expert."

Once he was done, he stepped back and gave me the once over. For the second time, he smiled at me. "That’s what a man’s supposed to look like. Ain’t nothing better looking than a good ol’ short back and sides."

I didn’t recognize the man in the mirror. For a split second, I thought it was my grandfather looking at me. He’d retired as a sergeant major, and always kept his hair cut just like the man showing up in the mirror.

I imagined Grandpa smiling at me…and the smile showed up in my face. I looked just like him, only younger. The smile turned into a grin when I thought, Younger and handsomer.

"I told you that you’d like it."

I ran my hand up the nape of my neck, and shivered when I felt bare skin. "Whoa! I didn’t say I liked it." I looked at myself again. "About the best I can say is that it’s interesting."

"Interesting is just a damned fancy way of saying you like something. Now pay up."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Shave’s on the house today. Come in with a beard next time, and it’ll be a dollar. Regular haircuts are seventy-five cents. Flattops a dollar."

I gulped, thinking about the sixty bucks I had just spent on a haircut…what was it? Three days ago? Four days ago?

I took a ten-dollar bill out. "Keep the change."

He glared at me. "I ain’t a goddamned charity case and I sure as hell ain’t a thief."

He damn near threw my change back at me.

I had to look at myself again. "Damn! I look good. Thank you, sir."

I was mighty nervous all weekend, waiting for my wife to get home.

She finally walked inâ€"after I had just about emptied the scotch bottle. My only excuse is I was so nervous I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

"Oh, excuse me. I didn’t realize we had compaâ€"" She stopped mid-stride. "JACK! Is that you?"

All I could do was nod.

"What the hell? You didn’t say a word about…oh, my god."

She stopped talking and just stared.

Finally, I couldn’t take the silence any more and started stammering, "I didn’t plan it. It just happened. What do you think? Do you hate it?"


I almost passed out when she whispered, "I think I’m falling in love…or lust…with you. What the hell?"

Then her hands were on my head. She started kissing meâ€"and stopped. "Your mustache feels so different!"

"Good different, or bad different?"

Her blues twinkled. "Definitely good. Very good. Kiss me again."

Her hands found the nape of my neck and she moaned. So did I.

We never made it to the bedroom that nightâ€"and it was a long night.

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