“Hot out there,” say.
“Hot in here,” your barber will say.
“Dreamed I was back in college, able to try it all again from the beginning,” say. “Hurt waking up and still being 43.”
“I haven’t dreamed in years,” Max with the cigar will shout from behind his Playboy.
“Two hit n’ runs,” your barber will say, tugging a little too hard with the brush. “Is that a lot?”
“Her name was Susan,” Louie, the barber no one ever requests will say. “Leukemia.”
“Worried about coming home one day and not recognizing my wife in the slightest,” tell your barber.
“Anyone want to buy a cell phone?” some kid will ask without coming all the way in the front door.
“I saw you,” tell your barber. “Saw you crying on the subway platform last Wednesday.”
He’ll tell everyone to leave. When the two of you are alone:
“Sometimes the memories of everyone I’ve pushed away, they just get a little too much to handle.”
“Still,” tell him. “You can’t let people see you like that. I count on you to cut my hair. How am I supposed to trust my appearance to you after witnessing such humanity?”
“I’m just a man,” he’ll say.
Jump out of the chair. “A man…with scissors!”
Your barber will stare at his scissors. They’ll drop from his hands.
“You need to get out of here,” tell him. “Walk. Until you find it in you to come back and cut men’s hair.”
He’ll open the front door.
“Hot out there,” he’ll say.
“Hot in here,” tell him.
Watch him walk out the door and out of your life. Before you leave, steal combs.
Happy Barbershop Chatter Day!
