John
I live in a small, relatively quiet town in a gray area between “midwest” and “the south.” Train tracks are one of the most defining terms for where things lie, other than the school, post office, small grocery store, and park.
It’s no surprise then, that I see the same people in different places around town. Someone I see walking their dog down Main Street is likely one I’ll eventually see at the grocery store.
Last week I was driving down Main Street around 8am, when I ended up stopped at a railroad crossing for a train. I happened to be stopped a few cars back, with the local barber shop directly out the passenger side door of my truck.
I saw a woman get out of her parked car, wearing jeans and a white tank top. I recognized her immediately as the teller I’m usually greeted by at the bank. She stood for a moment, running her hands through her bra strap length, light brown hair. The ends looked full and healthy from the two car lengths that separated us. She put her hair in a ponytail briefly, before pulling it out again. I could see her breathe a heavy sigh, as if preparing herself for something. Then, she walked in to the barber shop. I couldn’t help but wonder what she was going in for.
I myself was in need of a haircut, but I was not a regular at this shop. In fact, I’d never been inside. I decided to pull over and park. Composing myself, I got out of my truck, and walked across the tired concrete sidewalk to the front door, next to a single barber pole.
The woman I’d seen outside had just taken a seat, and a barber was throwing a cape over her shoulders.
“It’s only me until 10. I can cut you after her, if you don’t mind waiting.” The barber said casually.
“Thanks, I’ll wait.” I replied, and sat down in a chair with my back to the front window. I scanned the magazines, but kept my ear open.
“Yes, like that but shorter on the sides and back” she said in a soft voice, with a confident tone, handing a phone over to the barber.
The barber started by sectioning her hair, letting the sides and back fall, with just the top tied in a messy bun on the top of her head. He picked up a very small guard and put it on the clippers, then started working, removing everything but an eighth inch of hair from the sides and back of her head, leaving only short stubble behind.
All of this happened wordlessly as I watched. He removed the guard and started creating a low fade at the nape, leaving the hair over the ears the uniform eighth of an inch, but creating a pointed sideburn.
Then, he released the hair from the top of her head. Having been all one length before, it was just as long as I’d seen it on the sidewalk, only a bit thinner now. I was surprised to hear the clippers begin humming again.
The barber used a comb to stand her hair up straight as he plunged the number eight, one inch long guard into her remaining hair. He continued until every hair was a uniform inch in length, many standing straight up without the weight to hold them down. He then used texturizing shears throughout the remaining inch of hair, before combing what was left down and cutting just the very tips off in a line around most of the perimeter, at least an inch above her ears and eyebrows.
The short, disconnected cut that remained was striking. All of this had happened in the span of under ten minutes, yet the woman looked so different. The barber brushed her neck and head off before removing the cape, flicking off the remaining hair. He took pomade in his hands and began grabbing at the hair, then smoothing it down, then ruffling it up, until the hair had the desired textured, softly spiked appearance.
When she stood up, my jaw dropped. I could barely pay attention to the modest cleavage showing from her tank top, or her hourglass figure with curving hips and large, strong butt and legs. All I could focus on was her face, and her beautiful, confident green eyes, staring at me.
“You’re next” she said, smiling broadly.
She handed the barber some folded bills and walked to the front of the shop. When I stood up, she sat in my seat.
“Shave it.” She said.
“Excuse me?” I replied.
“Shave your head.” She said again. “You watched my haircut. Now I’ll watch yours.”
I stepped up to the barber’s chair and sat down. My hair was only an inch or so long on top, and thinning a bit. The sides had grown out a bit to about half an inch. Maybe shaving it was what I needed to do to stop feeling so self conscious about it.
“Shave my head.” I said.
The barber got to work, using guardless clippers to strip my head of its hair, then lathering and scraping off anything that remained, before turning the razor to edging up my quarter inch long beard.
What I saw in the mirror was surprising. I looked confident and handsome without my thinning hair.
I paid the barber and turned to the door. She was still there. I opened the door for her and we stepped out, with her putting her arm in mine.
“My apartment is just down the street.” She said casually. “I think we owe each other another show.”
