barbers friend
Roberta-1
(translated with google)
Roberta Finch stands in front of the mirror in her Chicago apartment.
Her uniform fits perfectly, and she pulls her hip-length ponytail—slicked tightly back—through the opening in her cap.
“I really need to get my ends trimmed,” she says to her reflection, tossing the thick brown mass of hair back over her shoulder.
She is heading to the late shift with the Metropolitan Police.
Finally, back on duty.
She had spent the last two weeks attending a de-escalation training course.
A radio dispatch.
“Robbery at a hair salon involving hostages! 25 Accord Street!
All units in the vicinity are to report there immediately!”
When Roberta arrives, her colleagues brief her.
“Hello Robby—back on duty at last, and then you run straight into something like this.”
“Freddy’s Hair Lounge” is written on the shop window.
Presumably two armed gangsters. Four hostages:
the hairdresser, two female customers, and a girl.
“They’re demanding $1 million and a high-performance patrol car as a getaway vehicle. Our snipers are on their way—hopefully.”
“And the money?” “You know how long the bureaucracy takes.”
The area has been cordoned off over a wide radius.
“What’s that lying by the door?”
“A severed braid. Then came a bucket full of blonde hair, though the wind blew it away. A quarter of an hour later, another bucket—brimming with black curls.”
“Chief!” an officer calls out from the squad car. “The public prosecutor’s office needs at least another hour to get the money together.”
The door to the salon opens a crack.
“It’s the girl’s turn now! After that, the first ears come off!”
“I’m going in there to talk to them.
Maybe they’ll let the child go in exchange,” she says to the Chief.
“No, Robby—absolutely not! It’s too dangerous.
We don’t know what’s going on in there.”
Suddenly, Roberta is standing in the cordoned-off area, about two meters from the shop door.
“Robby, come back right now! That’s an order!” her chief bellows.
The shop door opens a crack.
“I’m coming in now, and you’re going to let the child go,” Roberta calls out.
“Okay—but strip first.”
Roberta lets her cap fall, then her uniform jacket. She takes off her boots and slides down her trousers. Roberta stands in front of the door in her underwear.
“Everything!” comes the command.
Without hesitation, Roberta unfastens her bra and lets it drop.
There isn’t a sound to be heard around her.
Everyone is holding their breath in anticipation.
Roberta stands almost naked in front of the door;
she is wearing nothing but her panties.
“Stretch out your arms and turn around!”
Roberta stretches her arms out to the sides and turns slowly.
Her breasts stand out from her body like two apples.
Not a sound is heard; only the wind caresses her long hair across her back. She turns and bares herself before her colleagues and countless onlookers.
“Let the child out!”
“Come inside first!”
Roberta disappears through the door.
She sees three people in the barber chairs. The barber and two women—both with their heads shaved—are bound to the chairs with cable ties.
A girl sits trembling on one of the waiting chairs.
The two hostage-takers are masked and heavily armed.
“On your knees!”
Roberta kneels down, right in front of the girl.
One of the thugs steps in front of her and grabs her thick hair.
A razor blade flashes; he yanks her hair forward so hard that she has to brace herself with her hands.
A sickening sound as the sharp blade cuts into her hair.
Her braid is so thick that the knife can barely get through.
Her long ponytail lands on the ground in front of her.
“Now let the child go, finally!”
“Okay, the kid can go.”
At that moment, the shop window shatters.
A bullet hits the wall, then the bang is heard.
One of the gangsters raises his submachine gun.
Roberta pulls the child from the chair and throws herself on top of her.
He fires!
The police return fire.
“Stop! Stop immediately!” the chief yells.
It is quiet.
The Chief cautiously approaches the door.
No reaction.
The Chief pushes the door open. A scene of horror.
He sees Robby lying on the floor.
He sees the bullet holes in her back.
The two hostage-takers have vanished through the back door.
He kneels down beside her and turns her onto her back so that her head rests on his lap. The little girl is lying beneath her, looking up at him in fear.
Roberta’s eyes are closed. Blood is flowing from her bullet wounds.
The special forces unit, having arrived in the meantime, storms into the room in full gear. One of them picks up the girl and carries her out to the waiting paramedics.
“Roberta! Wake up! Hang in there!” He pats her cheek.
He only calls her Roberta that when he means it, very mean it.
She opens her eyes briefly and shakes her head. “I can’t.”
From the back of the house, he hears two quick “pops.”
The unmistakable sound of a sniper rifle.
The paramedics are there. “Out of my way!” The chief just nods.
One woman has a bullet lodged in her shoulder; the other has a through-and-through wound in her upper arm. Only the hairdresser is uninjured. And the girl.
The Chief and a colleague have been waiting outside the operating room at the hospital for three hours. A doctor comes out and removes her face mask.
“She made it.” They look at the doctor uncertainly.
“She’s out of danger.” The two of them fall into each other’s arms.
“Sorry, Chief,” the colleague says, wiping the tears from her eyes.
The Chief simply nods at her, having to wipe away a tear of his own.
“Three bullets in the back and two in the left leg.
It’s going to take time. She has to fight.”
The Chief or one of her colleagues visits her every day.
Roberta spends three weeks in the intensive care unit,
then comes the welcome news.
“Officer Roberta Finch has been transferred to a regular hospital ward.”
Roberta smiled as the Chief came into her room with flowers.
“Do you know who was just here?” He shook his head.
“That girl, Marie by the way, with her mother.
She bought me chocolate with her pocket money.”
After three months, Roberta is able to leave the hospital and recover at home. Eventually, she goes to the hair salon.
She enters the salon.
A young man greets her. “I’m Freddy. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Roberta, and it’s time to bring some order to this wild mess on my head.” As she says this, she runs her fingers through her brown hair, which is sticking out in all directions. He looks at her.
“You are…” He rushes around the counter and pulls her into a tight embrace.
“Please forgive me. But I couldn’t help myself.”
“Please call me Robby.” He studies her.
“Robby, you’re going to get the most beautiful haircut I’ve ever done.”
With a gentle touch, he washes her hair and massages her scalp.
He parts her hair on the left, then on the right. Freddy shakes his head.
A center part! A few strands falling onto the forehead!
He turns her head to the left, then to the right, forward and back.
“Now I’ve got it!” “Got what?” He reaches for the comb and scissors.
Freddy stands behind her and takes three deep breaths.
A questioning look from Roberta.
“I always do this beforehand so nothing goes wrong.”
(A big thank you to Melanie Buzz for her story about “Freddy”).
When he’s finished, he’s beaming. Roberta is too.
A few bangs, longer hair on top, ears uncovered, layered at the back of his head down to the nape of his neck.
“What do I owe you?” she asks, pulling her wallet out of her bag.
Freddy looks at her in horror. “Owe me? You? You don’t owe me a thing.
I owe *you* far more. Free haircuts for life.
And now put your wallet away, or else you’re getting a buzz cut!”
He smiles, and Roberta gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.
Roberta stands in front of the mirror at home.
Her black uniform is freshly pressed; she puts on her cap.
She enters the station’s open-plan office. She looks around.
Some are sitting at their laptops; others are standing together, talking loudly.
She walks down the aisle toward her old desk.
The conversations gradually die down. She drags her left leg;
it looks like a slight limp. Step by step. Now the office is silent.
Roberta looks straight ahead. The chief emerges from his office, alerted by the sudden silence. He walks toward her.
Roberta salutes.
“Officer Roberta Finch reporting for duty.”
Someone starts clapping.
Suddenly, the whole office erupts in applause.
The chief returns her salute and gives her a warm hug.
Their caps fall to the floor.
“Come into my office.”
One colleague whispers to another—
“Did you see her haircut? Absolutely perfect. Who can pull that off?”
“Sergeant Officer Finch! You will be in charge of office operations here, effective immediately.”
“Why Sergeant? Why office operations?”
“Because you’ve been promoted, effective immediately. And office operations because I can’t and won’t send you out on the street yet.”
There are a few more meetings with the Chief in the near future.
Six weeks have passed when the Chief emerges from his office with a thick envelope.
“Sergeant Officer Finch!” the Chief calls out loudly for everyone to hear.
Roberta stands up. “Yes, sir!”
“I have a new badge here for Special Agent Finch from the FBI.”
No one applauds.
“Robby, you can’t leave!” “No, never!” “Not you!”
The end?
(But maybe I have another idea.)
