The Barber Shop; Part 1

At first, I think the barber couldn’t be more out of his mind, offering me a free haircut and shave on New Year’s Day. Who on Earth is open New Year’s Day? Besides, the last thing I want is to be stuck with this hangover, small-talking about some barber’s grandkids visiting over the holidays.

I had wandered by his shop before-peered through the window as he stood on top his overturned milk crate to reach a stick man’s flattop, hopping down with so much zeal, I’d thought him to be much younger than the man before me now.

He looks just like a pig. His pink skin pulls tight and shiny to the back of his balding head, his round nose pugs enough to stop his wire-frames from slipping. A line digs deep across his wide forehead while he smiles.

“Free?” I ask.

He pats my shoulder like an old friend, holding open his shop’s glass door. “Be my pleasure.”

The wind howls, blows open the bottom flaps of my overcoat, stinging my legs. I step inside and sneeze quickly, three times.

Dust coats the magazine table in the entryway. The shop feels warm and relaxing, numbing my cheeks, but empty, like no customer has stopped by for years. I stomp the snow from my Sorel boots and sneeze again.

“Gazoontite.” The barber offers me a checkered handkerchief from his white jacket pocket.

“No thanks,” I say, wiping my nose with a fat, leather-gloved hand. I notice the dark wood paneled walls. They give the impression of a small room, but the shop stretches long and narrow, so five chairs fit comfortably in a line. The bright overhead fluorescents are turned off, and a table lamp illuminates the last chair. It makes me uneasy, like walking into a stranger’s living room.