Hurr-kut

I got my hair cut today.

I really like haircuts. On the one hand they’re utilitarian and dull. It’s just cutting hair. But at the same time, the whole process is strangely personal and intimate. Someone is coming into your personal space, touching your head, and altering an important piece of you. Hair is part of how you present yourself to the world. It says a lot about a person. Even not caring about it is making a statement.

The barbershop I go to is right in my neighbourhood. It’s one of the first places I found when I moved to the city that I felt I could call my own.

It feels like a classic barbershop. The big windows let in lots of natural light and there’s the usual magazine table. There’s an odd assortment of pictures on the walls; old local hockey teams and impressively out-dated model head-shots, yellowed with time. There’s two over-sized barber chairs with maroon leather, and two mirrors with the usual barber work tables: scattered with razors and scissors, standing-room-only for the various bottles and cans of hair product. There’s even that tall skinny jar with the blue stuff that the combs hang out in. I think that’s the what makes barber shops smell the way they do. I always thought it was called barbasol, but I looked it up and it’s actually called barbicide. The inventor apparently named it that because he hated barbers, and barbicide meant ‘to kill the barber.’

How does anybody hate barbers?

At some point ‘I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues’ played on the radio. And at the time, to me, it seemed like pretty much the most perfect barbershop song you could ever listen to (

There are two barbers in this shop; one who talks a lot and one who doesn’t. My guy is the quiet guy. Partly because, the first time I went in there I got him by fluke and partly because, as quiet guy cuts my hair, I can listen to talky guy talk and there’s no expectation of intermittent ‘yup’ ‘s.

“I haven’t seen you in a while” he says as I sit down, taking a dig at my longer than usual, generally unkempt hair.

I had always assumed he just didn’t like to talk. We’d do the usual idle talk at the start. He’d ask me what sort of haircut I wanted, and I’d struggle to describe it, wondering how many times I would have to go there before I could just say ‘the usual’. Then he’d take to cutting my hair and conversation would mostly dry up. I should have known that, just because he didn’t say much, didn’t mean he had nothing to say.

Maybe because it was Thursday " talky guy’s customary day off " and it was unusually quiet, he felt the need to fill the air. Or maybe, like me, he’s a storyteller and today I just happened to provide the right spark.

I had brought my guitar. The neck was cracked and I was taking it to a nearby guitar shop to see if anything could be done about it. When I can, I like to string a couple of errands together in a row. It makes me feel productive. My guitar was sitting beside the magazine table, waiting patiently.

“Do you play?” he asked.

“Yeah. I mean, I mess around a bit” I confided.

After wetting my hair and combing it back, he began to cut it.

Shk, shk, shhhhk.

After a minute or two I asked if he played. The moment would have already passed in normal conversation, but time and talk move a little slower when getting your hair cut.

“No. I tried once. But when I was young like you, my only sport was drinking.”

He pauses, deciding.

Shhk, shhhk, shk.

And continues.

“I decided I was going to be a guitar player, so I bought a guitar, I knew a guy up on Quinpool Rd. who was giving lessons. This was way back; before you were born. I started going to this guy and after three or four months I was three pages into the book. I said to the guy ‘I’m never going to learn how to play this!’ And he said to me ‘Well maybe if you showed up sober once in a while!’. Then he said I had to choose: playing guitar or drinking.”

Shk, shk, shk.

“I chose drinking.”

Shk, shk, shhhk, shk.

As he continued, I could tell he was thinking about things he hadn’t in a while.

“I kept the guitar though. I kept it in the corner of my bedroom. It was good for the girls and that: ‘Do you play?’ " “Oh sure! Yeah.” Then one time this girl was over and she stayed the night. She played. And she started telling about her guitar and how it was broken. It was a sad story. I said ‘You want this one?’ And that was the end of that.”

My head was starting to take shape " I assumed. Without my glasses I squinted hard at the mirror trying to see what he was doing.

His next appointment walked in. They greeted each other and he sat down to the paper. Privacy compromised, we didn’t talk much after that. I sat watching my hair collect on the apron, excited for the end when I could dump it off all at one.

“Well that should just about do it” he declared, handing me my glasses.

“Looks good” I said. And it did.

The cash register is one of those big, old, heavy, golden ones. The kind that looks like it’d be hard to steal. I noticed his hands shaking slightly as his fingers worried at making change, so I snuck a sneaky glance at the mirror. Everything on my head still seemed fine.

He returned to his battle station. The other guy was now sitting in the big chair. As I buttoned up my coat and grabbed my guitar his eyes met mine in the mirror.

“Looks good” he reaffirmed. smiling.

“Yeah” I agreed. “Thanks for saying it, and thanks for doing it.” I gave him a wave and turned to leave. As I reached for the door, I caught my reflection in the window smiling back at me.

This is a great haircut.

Author's Note

I feel like I captured the mood like I wanted fairly well, but I wonder if it's relatable? Is it enjoyable to read? Also, what genre would you say this is? Is it an essay?