Barber Shop

by Josh Goldstein

I am sitting in a chair with a large apron over my clothes looking straight into the faded mirror in front of me. I eyed over to the side of the mirror where a photo of him, his wife, and his kids was taped on the mirror and I smiled. The fluorescent lights of the barbershop streamed downwards onto me as the light coming from outside of the shop hits the side of my face.

There was a man behind me. He is standing there, not much taller than the barbershop chair that I am sitting in, his stocky, fleshy build perfectly reflecting the messily parted grayish brown hair that rested on the top of his head. He cracked a smile and walked over just in front of me and pulled out an electric razor, pressed the “on” button and the razor started to rumble. He leaned in close and slowly, but surely stroked the razor up the side of my face and then stopped at the crease between my face and my hair.

“So, how ’bout them Yankees,” said Tommy the barber excitedly to start the conversation that would last the duration of the haircut.

“I know,” I said reluctantly, “they are not doing too well right now, but they’ll do better. I just wish they wish they actually had some pitching.”

“I know.”

And I am sitting there thinking about how drastically different this shop is compared to Gina’s, the “salon” nearby; how the feel is so different and how the clientele is too. But that thought was interrupted by the loud excited exclaim of another customer:

“HEEEY THERE TOMMY!”

“Hey Dick!”

And Tommy took a giant step over to the man called Dick, warmly welcomed him, and then took his muscular arm and shook the man’s hand whole-heartedly. They stood smiling at each other, each asking how their kids are and Dick then goes to another chair, where the man named Felix took a bottle of shaving cream, shook it up, and then started dosing it on Dick’s wrinkled face in need of a shaving.

“So, the normal cut today,” Tommy said, once again grabbing my attention from the mirror’s odd reflection of myself.

“Yea, that’d be fine. But not as short as before, a bit longer, a bit more full, ya know what I mean.”

“Yea Josh, I get what you are sayin’. But ya know I don’t want you to look like a caveman.”

And I cracked back, “Well, I don’t want to look like Moe (from the Three Stooges) either.”

Funny enough, when I was little, that was always how my hair used to fall, Tommy got a kick out of it; he loved it. But it did start to change and he finally adjusted.

Then a little boy walked in with a woman decked out in high heels, a long skirt, a low-cut shirt, and had makeup carefully placed along her face that surely had plastic surgery done to it. Her probable fake blonde hair fell perfectly around her eyes only to reveal the best features of her worked on face.

Tommy took three quick, but lengthy steps over to the counter and said “How are you, ma’am?”

“Fine,” she said, “how long until my son’s haircut?”

“Oh, just, umm, just a few minutes.”

“Ok,” she said skeptically as she sat back down on the black leather couch and picked up a “People” magazine.

Tommy walked back over to my chair and picked up a silver pair of scissors gleaming right back at him as he smiled, stuck his index and middle finger in it, and took his other hand and placed it on my head. He took his index and middle fingers and squeezed them together gently, making a certain amount of hair stand up so the scissor could go and cut those pieces of hair off my head. A concentrated look appeared upon his face.

Anyone could tell when he was really concentrated because he had that look about him, a very intense, yet warm and gentle look. But you know when he does that look, he means business, and that usually results in something good for me, so I don’t bother him at this time.

“Don’t move your head Josh or you can be sure that I will cut off your ear,” said Tommy while he was fixated on cutting the plethora of hair that I have.

But I had heard this many times before. I once did move my head, by accident, and he nicked my ear, but didn’t cut it off. So I smile whenever he says that, it is an immediate reflection to that everlasting memory of trail and nearly unfortunate consequences.