The barber by Storryteller

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It was the mid-1970s.

I was just a kid.

By the standards of the time, my hair had become rather long for a boy. It didn't reach my shoulders, but it covered most of my ears and fell across my forehead. Whenever the wind blew, strands drifted into my eyes. I liked it that way. It was the style many boys my age wore.

Every now and then my father would look at me and say,

"Your hair is getting too long."

"Yes, sir," I would answer.

But somehow another week would pass, and then another. There was always a reason to put off getting it cut.

One Saturday morning I decided to walk into the little neighborhood barbershop by myself.

It was one of those old-fashioned places that seemed untouched by time. A single striped pole stood outside, its paint faded by years of sun. The wooden sign simply read

BARBER

Nothing more.

I pushed open the door.

A small bell jingled overhead.

The barber looked up.

He was exactly what I imagined an old neighborhood barber should look like.

A stocky man with a comfortable belly.

A broad face.

A thick gray mustache that had obviously been trimmed with great care.

The top of his head was completely bald, shining softly beneath the morning light coming through the front window.

He wore a white barber's coat that had once been bright but had long since faded to an off-white color. It was spotless despite its age. The fabric had become thin from countless washings, and there were careful patches sewn near one pocket.

He smiled warmly.

"Morning, son."

"Good morning, sir."

He nodded toward the chair.

"Hop on up."

The barber chair seemed enormous.

The leather seat had softened with decades of use.

As I climbed into it, the heavy springs gave a deep creak.

The barber unfolded a large white cape.

With one practiced motion he draped it over me and fastened it snugly around my neck.

Then he picked up a comb.

Slowly he began combing through my hair.

He lifted sections.

Ran his fingers through them.

Studied them quietly.

After a moment he gave a thoughtful little grunt.

"That's quite a bit of hair you've got there, son."

"Yes, sir."

That was all I said.

I assumed he would simply trim it.

Maybe shorten the sides.

Clean up the back.

That was what barbers usually did.

But this man had learned his trade long before long hair became fashionable for boys.

To him, a proper boy's haircut meant one thing.

Short.

Very short.

He opened one of the drawers beneath the counter.

From inside he took out a heavy hand-operated hair clipper.

It was made entirely of polished steel.

No electricity.

No motor.

Just two sharp blades that moved back and forth whenever he squeezed the handles together.

It looked old even then.

He placed the cool metal gently against my forehead.

Then I heard the first sound.

Click... click... click... click...

The hand clipper began its steady rhythm.

On the very first pass I felt an entire strip of hair disappear.

In the mirror I watched thick locks slide silently down onto the white cape.

This wasn't just a trim.

Not even close.

The barber continued without hesitation.

Click... click... click... click...

Stroke after stroke.

Always from the front toward the back.

Each pass left my hair shorter than I had ever imagined.

Soon my bangs were gone.

Then the sides.

Little by little my ears began to emerge.

First their tops.

Then their full shape.

I had never realized how large they looked without hair covering them.

I glanced nervously into the mirror.

For a brief moment I considered saying something.

But the barber worked with such calm confidence.

Every movement suggested decades of experience.

He wasn't experimenting.

He wasn't guessing.

He was simply giving a young boy what he sincerely believed was a proper haircut.

So I stayed quiet.

The clipper continued its mechanical song.

Click... click... click... click...

The more hair disappeared, the more of my scalp became visible.

It was much paler than my face.

Protected from the sun for months, it almost seemed to glow beneath the shop lights.

The contrast surprised me.

The barber paused now and then to run his broad hand across my head.

Whenever he found even the slightest uneven patch, he immediately went over it again.

Another pass.

Then another.

Then another.

Patiently reducing every last strand until they were all exactly the same length.

The cape gradually became covered with brown hair.

Whenever he tapped the clipper lightly against his hand to clear it, fresh locks floated down across my lap.

Around the chair, the wooden floor disappeared beneath a circle of freshly cut hair.

It looked as though someone else's entire head of hair had been left behind.

Finally he set the clipper aside.

He took a soft neck brush and gently swept away the loose clippings from my neck and ears.

Then he poured a few drops of aftershave tonic into his palms.

He rubbed his hands together.

Carefully he spread it across my freshly clipped scalp.

A cool sensation rushed over my head.

For the first time in months I could feel the air directly against my scalp.

It felt strangely refreshing.

The barber stepped back.

Folded his arms.

Studied his work.

Then nodded with quiet satisfaction.

"There we are."

He handed me a small mirror so I could see the back.

The neckline was perfectly even.

Not a single hair stood higher than the others.

He removed the cape.

As he gave it one firm shake...

A shower of brown hair drifted onto the floor.

I looked into the large mirror one last time.

For a moment I barely recognized myself.

My face looked different.

My ears stood out much more than before.

My scalp looked almost white compared to my tanned forehead.

I slowly ran my hand across my head.

The hair was so short it barely bent beneath my fingers.

It felt like soft velvet.

I climbed down from the chair.

"Thank you very much, sir."

The barber smiled.

"You're welcome, son."

As soon as I stepped outside, a cool breeze brushed across my nearly bare scalp.

I had never felt wind like that before.

It was strange.

And somehow pleasant.

On the walk home I kept rubbing my hand over my head.

The tiny bristles made a soft whispering sound beneath my fingertips.

When I opened the front door, my father was sitting in the living room reading the newspaper.

He looked up.

Then froze.

For several long seconds he simply stared at me.

Slowly a huge smile spread across his face.

One of those smiles that begins in the eyes before reaching the mouth.

He stood immediately.

"Well, would you look at that!"

He walked over to me, almost laughing.

Without saying another word, he gently laid his hand on top of my head.

He slowly rubbed the short bristles.

Then did it again.

And again.

His smile grew even wider.

"That looks wonderful!"

He held my face between his hands.

Turned my head slightly one way.

Then the other.

He admired the clean lines around my ears.

He looked carefully at the back of my neck.

He nodded with obvious satisfaction.

"That's exactly how a boy's haircut should look."

I had never seen my father so genuinely happy over something as simple as a haircut.

He laughed quietly to himself.

Called my mother into the room.

Showed her proudly.

Then came back and ran his hand across my head once more.

"My goodness..."

He smiled.

"You look like such a fine young man."

Seeing how happy he was made me smile too.

After a little while he asked,

"Tell me something."

He looked directly into my eyes.

"Was this the haircut you asked for?"

For a brief moment I looked at his face.

At the pride shining in his eyes.

I thought about the old barber who had simply done the haircut he had spent a lifetime perfecting.

I thought about the happiness my father was feeling.

Then I quietly answered,

"Yes, sir."

His smile became even brighter.

He gently rubbed my head one last time.

His fingers made the faintest whispering sound across the tiny bristles.

"I knew that haircut would suit you."

For the rest of the afternoon he seemed happier than usual.

Every time he walked past me he smiled.

Sometimes he would casually rest his hand on my head for a moment, still enjoying the feel of the fresh haircut.

And I let him.

Because seeing how much joy it brought him, I began to treasure the moment too.

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