The
Last Strands
As I banged on the door, I realized he was trying to
close up for the night. A little sticker
on the door says that the shop closes at 6, and in the early
evening’s darkened
shade my lit-up phone says it is only
There is a look of uncertainty on the old man’s face, but it is brief. He shuffles towards the door and a welcoming click accompanies the now open lock. He slowly walks back toward his little pile of hair as I enter the shop. I steal a glance into one of the three large mirrors on the wall. My hair is shaggy and fraying at the ends, twisting up into little feminine curls. Definitely not the look I’d need tonight. I looked exactly like what I was: a slacker, fresh out of college.
The old man sweeps the little pile of hair into a corner, probably intending to add mine to the pile before he picks it up. I’m still standing, looking at my hair in the mirror, tugging at the strands, marveling at how fast they grow.
“Well, you want a haircut or don’t ya?”
I’m suddenly embarrassed, sure he had seen me vainly looking into the mirror.
“Yes….sir. A haircut.”
Once inside the light of the shop, I could get a better look at him. Outside, behind the locked door, the view was skewed by the evening dusk and the reflected blues, whites, and reds bouncing off the window panes as the large barber pole endlessly spun; the same bright rotation of color that caught my attention from the road. The man had a clean appearance, with his immaculate white apron draped over smooth black dress pants and a rigidly-cuffed white shirt. His hair was kept short, not just by his fully retreated hairline, but also in style. It was like a crew cut, but more sparse and less even. I am disappointed by people who don’t apply their skills to themselves. I always figured fashion designers would dress the best, restaurant chefs would eat delicious meals at home, psychiatrists would have their lives figured out, and barbers would have beautiful hair. This old barber didn’t seem to care about his hair, or just thought at his age, it didn’t matter. I’m only 23 and it’s scary to imagine I might one day think like that. The man was old, but not ancient, probably seventy or so.
“Sit over there.” And he points to the chair furthest from the door.
I look at the workstation in front of the chair, with all the tools laid out on a little shelf under the mirror. There is a pristine white towel, folded over, holding a linear arrangement of scissors, a long thin comb, battery-powered clippers, and a small hand mirror with a black, plastic frame. Behind the towel is a spray bottle and a clear jar filled with blue Barbicide. Barbicide. It was one of those words I’d never forget.
Once I’m in the chair, he swings a black apron into the air and lets it fall flat all around me, like an unfurled picnic blanket. Immediately, the spray bottle is out and he is dousing my head from every angle. My already too-long strands lengthen in their wetness. No words are exchanged and suddenly his wrinkled but deftly moving hands have procured the scissors and comb and he is slicing off chunks of hair. First a long comb stroke to flatten the length, and then the swooping blade, come to halve that length. He’s working quickly, and silently, and I figure I better get a word in before I end up with less hair than him.
“Don’t you need to know what I want?”
His hands don’t stop, but move a little slower at my voice breaking the heavy silence in the room. He seems to be considering my question.
“Okay…what do you want?”
“Ummmm….I guess just a normal cut: short on the sides and a little longer on the top, blended in the middle.”
He barely considers my answer.
“What else do you think I might have given you?”
He asks this question with a little bitterness in his voice, as if I was mistrustful of him and he knew it.
“Oh, nothing, just wanted to be clear is all.”
After thinking about it, he was right. Guys don’t change hair styles that often. Most of the time, we just need our hair trimmed back to its original length, before time grew it out like a dirt patch of weeds.
I felt like an idiot for my assumption, and though he continued his work, he seemed a little grumpier and I felt bad. He had opened up his door at closing time just for me, after all.
“So, how long have you done this?”
At this question, he stopped clipping the wet strands off my head. He looked into the mirror, possibly looking at me, possibly looking at his own reflection, counting the years in his head.
“Well, I worked for a few years in my father’s shop. Then I opened this joint in ’62, I think. So, fifty years, give or take.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of hair to cut.”
He then resumed his work and with his eyes set about his task, he said:
“Yeah, I suppose it was.”
I thought he had effectively closed off the conversation, but then surprised me by reciprocating.
“So, what do you do, young man?”
“I graduated from college in the spring.”
At the mention of spring, both our heads swung to the oversized glass windows at the front of the shop. We stared out at the last orange and red flavored leaves that clung to the trees’ strands of branch, hoping against hope not to fall like all the rest. For a moment, I was sure me and the old man were thinking exactly the same thing: Was it fall already? Had that much time passed so quickly?
He was first to bring his mind back inside the shop and began clipping again.
“What’s next then?”
“Well, I got my degree in business management, so I’m hoping to get a job in that.”
“Must be tough to find a manger’s job right away.”
I laugh a little, because it was the first thing I thought of when I originally heard my major described as “Business Management”.
“Actually, it’s just like a normal business degree, in that you have to work your way up, but, yeah, it’s geared towards management of people and business decisions and stuff like that.”
“Sounds promising.”
I’m not sure if he meant it sarcastically, but I felt insulted that he would throw that meaningless phrase at me; a phrase securely reserved for the hopeless. I felt compelled to correct him.
“I actually have an interview tonight.”
“Oh, you don’t say. That must be the reason for the cut. Though it wouldn’t have hurt to come a little earlier.”
He must have noticed my defensive tone, but deftly responded by mentioning the awkward way in which I basically forced him to unlock his door just to give me a haircut.
“Well, I was, uh, busy all day and didn’t get a chance. Thanks for opening up, though.”
By busy, I really mean otherwise engaged, namely, waking
up at noon and playing XBOX in my underwear until my mom came home with
fried
chicken at 5:00 for dinner, which I bolted from at about 5:30, after
mom’s
suggestion/command that I needed a hair cut before the interview. After driving by the darkened Super
Cuts and abandoned Hair Cuttery,
I saw the lit up barber poll and prayed it was open.
“Kind of late for an interview.”
“This guy is a family friend and had meetings all day. He was going out for drinks with a few work people and thought I should tag along.”
“So it isn’t an interview.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re just ‘tagging’ along, you’re not interviewing for a job.”
“Well, from everyone I’ve talked to, you pretty much have to campaign for a job outside of work. Email them, text them, meet them for drinks, stuff like that. They call it all sorts of things, but everything is really an interview.”
“Strange. Way back when, if you wanted a job, you filled out a resume then applied at the place.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s a little different now, they want to know they can trust you, so you have to build a rapport with them.”
“Hell, sounds like a load of nonsense to me. Easier just to judge a handshake and see if they can look you in the eye.”
He had finished trimming the long strands on top of my head. The peak of my now exposed forehead was paler than the rest of my face, having spent multiple months untouched by the late summer and early autumn sun.
The old man then wiped clean the scissors with the edge of the towel and carefully placed them in their previously held position. He grabbed the clippers and began the delicate process of evening the short hair on the sides of my head.
Frequently, taking a break from watching the severed hair accumulating on my lap and the floor around me, I would look at the old man in the mirror. His eyes never faltered in their focus, even when he spoke, and his hands moved with assured control.
I wondered how many years it would take me to get that good at anything. Fifty years?
“So you joined the family business, so to speak…cutting hair, I mean.”
“I guess you could say that. I spent a lot of time growing up sitting on an adjustable chair while my father cut someone’s hair. I liked the relaxed atmosphere. Seemed very simple to me. Easy enough to learn, but important enough to be needed.”
“Plus, it must have been cool to spread out on your own. Get your own little business going apart from your dad.”
“And then there’s just the rest of your life.”
“Once you own a business?”
“Well once you decide what you want to do. Even if you’re happy with it, you still gotta come everyday knowing that this is about it. It’s kind of sad, in some ways, figuring out your life. You’ll never have the chance to figure it any other way. But, I can’t complain, the years have been good enough.”
“Well, I’m glad you decided to let me in, cuz you’re doing a nice job.”
He was done blending in the sides and was now straightening out the edges. He paused.
“I’ll be honest, I almost didn’t.”
I let out a little chuckle, thinking he’s kidding, but in the mirror I see that he isn’t.
“I’m sorry, again…Did you have somewhere to be?”
“No, it’s not about time. I’ve got plenty of time, far as I can tell. It’s more about last memories I suppose.”
“What do you mean?”
“Today’s my last day.”
Quickly, in my head, I calculated the many thousands of haircuts he must have given over fifty years, and one out of that number being the odds my only trip to his shop would be his very last cut.
“Wow, closing for good?”
“Yup.”
“Just ready to move on, then?”
“Can’t do one thing forever. But I did try to make my last client a
special one. I had Gus, a guy who came
in here for almost forty years, make his
way out here
to be my last cut. He lives up in
As he finishes up the last edges and unbuttons the apron to get at the back of my neck, I can’t look up into the mirror, fearful I might meet his line of sight.
“Well….God…I’m sorry if I was too much trouble or anything.”
In one smooth motion, he grabbed my black apron and yanked it from atop me. Expertly, all of the accumulated hair traveled with the removed apron and left me spotless.
“Don’t you worry yourself, son, you’ve got things to do. The big interview and all. No need to get all worked up over a hair cut, final cut or not.”
I awkwardly stood up from the chair. I looked around the shop and finally noticed that, indeed, he was closing it up for good. Other than his few utensils spread out on the tiny shelf he used for me, every other station was bare, and there was no cash register. The adjustable chairs were all still in place, which is what fooled me, but I guess you couldn’t really take those with you.
“So, how much do I owe you?”
He was already busying himself with sweeping up my discarded hair and adding it to the pile in the corner. Without looking up, he said:
“Don’t worry about it, ten bucks won’t make any difference, you just go enjoy your new cut.”
I stood there and continued facing his turned back as he whisked the little mounds of hair about the floor. I felt like I should say something. Something nice, like, “Good work.” or “We’ll miss you.” Instead, I said nothing, gave up and turned around, heading for the door.
Once outside, I stopped to look at him one last time. He picked up the pile of hair and dumped it in a trash bin. Without noticing me watching him, he walked towards the front of the shop and reached for a switch. Suddenly, the shop went dark, and to my right, the spinning barber pole dimmed and came to a silent halt.
With the barber shop darkened, the street lights illuminated my reflection in the windows’ glass. I ran my hand through my shortened hair and appreciated what a nice job he had done, but spontaneously, I hated it and wanted my shaggy hair back; only if that meant he could cut it once again.