Paul
Frank reached into his trouser pocket and counted his remaining money.
Three dollars and forty-seven cents.
That was all he had left.
Only a few weeks earlier, he had owned a successful barbershop near the Nash Motors automobile plant. He had spent years building that business, first serving the men employed by the old Jeffery company and later the workers who came through the factory gates after Nash took over.
Then the fire had destroyed everything.
His barber chairs, mirrors, tools, furniture, towels, and supplies had all been lost.
He had no building to fall back on, no land, and no other business. He was renting a small room and spending what little money remained on food and lodging.
He needed work.
And he needed it quickly.
Unfortunately, Kenosha was about the worst place imaginable for a barber looking for employment.
The barbers were on strike.
The Barber Strike
For weeks, trouble had been brewing between union barbers and the men who operated their own establishments.
The union wanted better working conditions, standardized wages, and shorter hours. Many employed barbers believed they were working too many hours for too little money, particularly when the cost of living had risen so sharply during the war.
Shop owners, meanwhile, were facing their own difficulties.
Kenosha’s automobile industry was suffering through a serious downturn. Nash Motors had reduced production, and many factory workers were unemployed or working fewer hours.
With fewer men earning regular wages, there were fewer customers willing to spend money on haircuts and shaves.
Some barbershop owners argued that they simply couldn’t afford the union’s demands.
Others refused to be told when they could open their doors or how much they had to pay their employees.
The disagreements had turned bitter.
Union men were walking picket lines outside establishments that refused to close. Customers were being discouraged from entering. Shop owners who continued operating were being called strikebreakers.
There were rumors of threats, broken windows, and physical confrontations.
Frank had heard enough stories to know that the trouble was serious.
What he hadn’t realized was how difficult it would make finding employment.
He had spent the previous two days walking from one barbershop to another.
At the first establishment, a handwritten sign announced that the shop was closed until the labor dispute was settled.
At another, the barber chairs were empty and the front door was locked.
A third shop had several men standing outside carrying signs.
Frank didn’t even bother approaching that one.
At another establishment, he managed to speak with the owner through a partially opened door.
“I’m looking for work,” Frank explained. “I’ve been barbering for years.”
The man shook his head.
“Work? You’re looking for work in the middle of a strike?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you’re wasting your time. Half the shops in town are closed, and the other half are afraid to hire anybody.”
“I don’t mind working.”
“That’s not the problem. The problem is what happens when somebody sees you working.”
The owner looked nervously down the street.
“I’ve got a wife and children. I’m not getting my windows smashed over a haircut.”
He closed the door.
Frank continued walking.
By the time he reached Twenty-Second Avenue, he was beginning to think there was no point remaining in Kenosha.
Perhaps he ought to try Racine.
Or Milwaukee.
Maybe Chicago.
There had to be a town somewhere that needed an experienced barber.
He hated the thought of leaving Kenosha. He had spent years building a reputation there. Men knew his name, and many had been his customers since the Jeffery automobile days.
But knowing people didn’t do much good when nobody was hiring.
He looked down at the few coins in his palm.
Three dollars and forty-seven cents.
He couldn’t afford to spend another week walking around looking for work.
“Maybe it’s time to move on,” he muttered.
Then he noticed something.
A barbershop.
And unlike the others he had passed, this one was open.
The Shop on Twenty-Second Avenue
The neighborhood reminded Frank of his old location near the automobile plant.
Across the street, customers were entering a meat market. Farther along stood the Strand Theatre, with motion-picture posters displayed near its entrance. A shoe repair establishment and several other small businesses occupied nearby storefronts.
Young men carrying books and toolboxes walked along the sidewalk. Many attended the technical school in the neighborhood, while others worked in Kenosha’s factories.
Frank figured a barbershop ought to do good business here.
He looked through the window.
Two barber chairs stood inside.
One was occupied.
The other was empty.
The barber working at the first chair appeared to be in his forties.
Frank noticed something else.
The man had a dark bruise along the side of his face.
There was also a small cut near his eyebrow.
Frank wondered what had happened.
He straightened his coat and reached for the door.
Then he hesitated.
What if this shop was having the same trouble as the others?
What if the owner didn’t want another barber?
He had already been turned away so many times that another rejection hardly seemed worth the trouble.
But the empty chair caught his attention.
He opened the door.
The bell above the entrance jingled.
“Morning,” Frank said.
The barber looked up sharply.
For a moment, he didn’t answer.
Then he said, “Morning.”
Frank noticed the man’s expression.
He didn’t look particularly pleased to have another visitor.
“Looking for a haircut?” the barber asked.
“Actually, I’m looking for employment.”
The barber immediately stopped combing his customer’s hair.
“Employment?”
“Yes, sir. I’m a barber.”
The man’s expression hardened.
“Are you now?”
“Been barbering for years.”
The owner carefully laid his comb on the counter.
“Who sent you here?”
Frank looked puzzled.
“Nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“No, sir. I’ve been walking around town looking for work.”
The owner glanced toward the front window.
“Are you with the union?”
Frank shook his head.
“No.”
“You’re certain about that?”
“Quite certain.”
The barber folded his arms.
“Because I’ve had enough trouble with those fellows already.”
Frank glanced at the bruise on the man’s face.
“I can see that.”
The owner frowned.
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
“Nothing disrespectful. I noticed you’ve been hurt.”
The barber touched his cheek.
“Yes, well, there’s a reason for that.”
He looked Frank over carefully.
“What’s your name?”
“Frank.”
The barber stared at him.
“Frank?”
“Yes, sir.”
For the first time, the owner’s expression softened slightly.
“Well, I’ll be damned. That’s my name, too.”
Frank smiled.
“Two Franks in one barbershop. That ought to make things interesting.”
The customer in the chair chuckled.
“Maybe you fellows ought to call yourselves Big Frank and Little Frank.”
The owner shook his head.
“Don’t you start that.”
But he still wasn’t smiling.
“Now, Frank, before we go any further, I want to know where you’ve been working.”
“I owned a shop over by the Nash plant.”
The owner’s expression changed.
“Wait a minute. The place that burned down?”
Frank nodded.
“That was mine.”
The barber stared at him.
“You owned that place?”
“Yes.”
“And you were keeping it open during the strike?”
Frank nodded again.
“I was trying to make a living.”
The owner slowly shook his head.
“Good Lord.”
He looked toward his customer.
“Didn’t I tell you about that fire?”
The customer nodded.
“Read about it.”
The owner turned back to Frank.
“I heard somebody’s shop burned down over there, but I didn’t know who owned it.”
“Well, now you do.”
“Was it the union?”
Frank hesitated.
“I don’t know who started the fire. All I know is that my business is gone.”
The owner studied him for several seconds.
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“Chairs?”
“Burned.”
“Equipment?”
“Burned.”
“Insurance?”
“Not enough to rebuild.”
Frank reached into his pocket.
“I’ve got three dollars and forty-seven cents left to my name. I’ve been walking around Kenosha trying to find somebody who’ll let me work.”
The owner looked at him differently now.
Frank continued.
“I don’t belong to the union. I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m not here to spy on anybody. I just want to cut hair and earn enough money to eat.”
The owner nodded slowly.
“Well, Frank, I believe you.”
He glanced toward the empty chair.
“And I suppose I ought to tell you what happened here.”
What Happened to Alex Savaglio
“That chair belongs to my business partner, Alex Savaglio,” the owner explained.
Frank looked toward the second chair.
“Where is he?”
“Home recovering.”
“Recovering from what?”
The owner touched the bruise on his face.
“The same thing that happened to me, only worse.”
Frank waited.
The owner continued.
“Alex came down here early one morning to open the shop. We had decided we weren’t going to close just because the union told us to.”
The customer in the chair shook his head.
“That was a bad morning.”
“It certainly was,” the owner agreed.
He turned back to Frank.
“Alex got here before I did. He was unlocking the front door when several men approached him.”
“Union men?” Frank asked.
“That’s what they claimed to be.”
“What happened?”
“They told him the shop was supposed to be closed. Alex told them this was his business and he intended to open it.”
The owner paused.
“One of them told him he’d better think twice about that.”
“And Alex?”
“Alex has a temper. Always has. He told them to mind their own business.”
Frank could imagine how that conversation had gone.
“That didn’t go over very well, I suppose.”
“No, it didn’t.”
The owner shook his head.
“One fellow shoved him against the door. Alex pushed him back. Then another fellow hit him.”
Frank frowned.
“How many were there?”
“Alex said four. By the time I arrived, there were three still hanging around.”
“What did they do to him?”
“They knocked him down on the sidewalk and kicked him while he was trying to get up.”
Frank looked toward the empty chair.
“Good Lord.”
“Somebody from the meat market came running over when he heard the commotion. That probably kept things from getting worse.”
“Was Alex badly hurt?”
“Broken ribs. His face was swollen something terrible. Doctor told him he was lucky he didn’t suffer a worse injury.”
“And you?”
The owner touched his eyebrow again.
“I got here while they were still outside. One of them told me I’d better turn around and go home.”
“What did you do?”
“Told him I was going inside to open my business.”
“And?”
“He punched me.”
Frank shook his head.
The owner gave a humorless laugh.
“I suppose I should have expected it.”
“Did you fight back?”
“I certainly did. I’m a barber, not a punching bag.”
The customer chuckled.
“You should’ve seen him.”
The owner shook his head.
“Didn’t do me much good. There were too many of them.”
“Did the police come?”
“Eventually. By then the fellows had scattered.”
“Did anybody get arrested?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
The owner glanced toward the window.
“And now every time somebody comes through that door asking questions, I wonder whether he’s another union fellow looking to start trouble.”
Frank nodded.
“That explains why you weren’t particularly friendly when I walked in.”
“Can you blame me?”
“Not one bit.”
The owner sighed.
“Alex hasn’t been able to work since. Doctor says he needs to stay home until those ribs heal.”
“How long?”
“Could be several weeks. Maybe longer.”
Frank looked toward the empty chair again.
“So you’ve been running the shop alone?”
“That’s right.”
“Must be difficult.”
“It is. Especially when the technical school lets out. Sometimes I’ve got six or seven fellows waiting for haircuts.”
Frank glanced toward the chair.
“Seems a shame to let a perfectly good barber chair sit empty.”
The owner looked at him.
“That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.”
Two Men Trying to Make a Living
The owner returned to his customer and resumed combing his hair.
For several minutes, neither Frank spoke.
Finally, the owner said, “You know, when I first saw you come through that door, I thought you might be one of them.”
“One of the union fellows?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve got to be careful these days. Some of them come around pretending to be customers. Others ask questions about who’s working and whether we’re hiring.”
Frank nodded.
“I’ve heard about that.”
“And here you are asking for a job right in the middle of the strike.”
Frank shrugged.
“Well, I can’t very well wait until the strike is over. I don’t have enough money.”
The owner looked at him in the mirror.
“You really lost everything in that fire?”
“Everything I had invested in the business.”
“How long had you owned it?”
“Years. Started back when the factory was still Jeffery. Built up a good trade with the automobile workers.”
“And now Nash is laying men off.”
“That’s right.”
The owner shook his head.
“Seems like everybody in Kenosha is having a hard time.”
Frank nodded.
“Some more than others.”
The owner glanced at his bruised face in the mirror.
“I suppose we’re both finding that out.”
Frank smiled faintly.
“At least you’ve still got your shop.”
“Yes. And I intend to keep it.”
He finished trimming his customer’s hair and brushed the loose clippings from the man’s collar.
Then he looked toward Frank.
“Tell me something. If I hired you, what would you do if those fellows came back?”
Frank considered the question.
“I’d keep cutting hair.”
“Even if they threatened you?”
“They can threaten me all they like. I’ve already lost my business. I don’t intend to lose my trade.”
The owner studied him.
Then he smiled.
“That’s the kind of answer I like.”
Frank looked toward Alex’s chair.
“Does that mean you’ve got a job for me?”
“Not so fast.”
The owner laughed.
“I haven’t seen you cut hair yet.”
Frank nodded.
“Fair enough.”
“I don’t care how many years a fellow tells me he’s been barbering. Before I let him work in Alex’s chair, I want to see what he can do.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
The owner gestured toward the waiting bench.
“Have a seat. Maybe somebody will come in and give you a chance.”
Frank removed his coat and sat down.
For years, he had been the man deciding who could work in his barbershop.
Now he was sitting on a bench, hoping another barber would give him an opportunity.
He didn’t like the feeling.
But pride wasn’t going to put supper on the table.
The Girl from the Technical School
About fifteen minutes later, the door opened.
A young woman stepped inside.
She appeared to be about twenty years old, wearing a dark skirt, a white blouse, and a light-colored hat pulled low over her forehead.
Her name was Ruth.
She attended the technical school nearby, where she was studying electrical work and drafting.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Do you gentlemen cut women’s hair?”
The owner looked up.
“Sometimes, miss. Depends on what you’re wanting.”
“I need a haircut.”
“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place.”
“A very short haircut.”
The owner raised his eyebrows.
“How short?”
Ruth hesitated.
“That’s what I need somebody to tell me.”
Frank stood.
“What’s happened?”
Ruth removed her hat.
Her hair was thick, dark brown, and reached well below her waist.
But something was terribly wrong with it.
Several large sections had been twisted together into sticky, tangled masses. Pieces of chewing gum were embedded throughout the hair, particularly around the back of her head and down the left side.
The owner stared.
“Good heavens, girl. What happened to you?”
Ruth’s face reddened.
“Some girls at school did this to me.”
Frank stepped closer.
“Did what?”
“They put chewing gum in my hair.”
The owner shook his head.
“Who would do such a thing?”
Ruth looked down.
“A girl in one of my classes. Her name is Florence. We’ve been having trouble with each other for weeks.”
“What sort of trouble?” Frank asked.
Ruth took a deep breath.
“She doesn’t like me. She thinks I don’t belong in the technical classes.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a girl studying electrical work. She says I’m trying to show off and make myself look better than everyone else.”
The owner frowned.
“Seems to me you’re there to learn a trade.”
“That’s what I told her.”
Ruth paused.
“But Florence has several friends who follow her around. They’ve been making remarks about me ever since the term started.”
Frank pulled a chair closer.
“Sit down a minute and tell us what happened.”
Ruth sat.
“Yesterday, we had an argument in the hallway. She accused me of telling the instructor she wasn’t doing her assignments.”
“Had you?”
“No. But the instructor had criticized her work, and she decided it must have been my fault.”
Ruth looked toward the mirror.
“Today, after our afternoon lesson, she followed me into the hallway with three of her friends.”
Frank listened quietly.
“She started calling me names. I told her to leave me alone.”
“And then?”
“She grabbed my arm and shoved me against the wall.”
The owner’s expression hardened.
“She put her hands on you?”
“Yes. She pinned me there. I tried to get away, but she was stronger than I was.”
Ruth swallowed.
“She had been chewing gum. She took it out of her mouth and pushed it into my hair, right behind my ear.”
Frank looked at the sticky mass near the left side of her head.
“That’s where this started?”
Ruth nodded.
“I tried to pull away. Then one of her friends laughed and said she had some gum too.”
The owner shook his head.
“Good Lord.”
“Then the others joined in. They were all chewing gum. One held my arm while another pressed hers into the back of my hair.”
Ruth’s eyes filled with tears.
“They kept laughing. Florence told me that if I wanted to look like one of the boys in the electrical classes, perhaps I ought to get a boy’s haircut.”
Frank’s jaw tightened.
“And nobody stopped them?”
“Eventually another student came down the hallway. They let me go when they saw him.”
“Did you tell an instructor?”
“Yes. I went straight to the office. They said they’d investigate.”
Ruth looked at her hair again.
“But that doesn’t help me now.”
The owner shook his head.
“Between what’s happening out on these streets and what’s happening in your school, it seems nobody knows how to leave anybody alone anymore.”
Frank nodded.
“Some people just can’t stand seeing somebody else trying to make something of themselves.”
The Damage
Frank examined the tangled sections carefully.
There were several pieces of gum worked deeply into the hair.
Some had been pressed close to her scalp.
Others were farther down the long strands.
The girls had apparently twisted the hair together while pushing the gum into it.
Frank separated a few strands with his fingers.
“Have you tried getting it out?”
“One of the girls at my boarding house tried. We used warm water and soap. It only seemed to make everything worse.”
Frank nodded.
“Water won’t dissolve chewing gum.”
“I tried combing it, too.”
“That must have hurt.”
“It did.”
He examined another section.
“Some of this could probably be worked loose with enough patience. But these tangles are badly twisted.”
Ruth looked at him.
“How much would you have to cut?”
“That depends on how much hair you want to save.”
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she looked toward the owner.
“Florence said I ought to get a boy’s haircut.”
Frank frowned.
“That doesn’t mean you have to give her what she wants.”
“I know.”
Ruth looked at her reflection.
“But I’ve been thinking about cutting my hair short for a long time anyway. I have to pin it up every morning for my classes. And now every time I look at it, I’m going to remember what happened.”
Frank nodded.
“Then the decision ought to be yours, not Florence’s.”
Ruth looked directly at him.
“That’s exactly what I want.”
An Unexpected Request
The owner gestured toward the second barber chair.
“Well, young lady, this fellow here is looking for a job. I was just about to see whether he knows how to cut hair.”
Ruth looked at Frank.
“You owned a barbershop?”
“Yes, miss. Over near the Nash plant.”
“What happened?”
“Fire took it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
The owner smiled.
“His name’s Frank. Same as mine. We’re liable to have two Franks working here if he passes his examination.”
Ruth managed a small laugh.
“Well, perhaps I can help with that.”
Frank smiled.
“Only if you’re comfortable with me cutting your hair.”
She nodded.
“I am.”
He gestured toward Alex Savaglio’s empty chair.
“Then have a seat.”
Ruth climbed into the chair.
Frank fastened a clean white cape around her neck and lifted the long, gum-filled hair over the back.
“Now, what sort of haircut would you like?”
Ruth looked thoughtful.
“I’ve seen some of the boys from school coming out of here with their hair very short on the sides and perfectly flat on top.”
The owner smiled.
“A flattop?”
“Yes.”
Frank nodded.
“I know the haircut.”
“Could you give me one?”
The owner raised his eyebrows.
“You’re asking for a flattop?”
Ruth nodded.
“Yes.”
Frank looked at her in the mirror.
“That’s a mighty short haircut, Ruth. You’ll have very little left on the sides and back.”
“That’s fine.”
“And the top will be cut straight and level.”
“That’s what I want.”
He paused.
“Are you certain you’re not doing this simply because of what those girls said?”
Ruth shook her head.
“No. They wanted to humiliate me. But if I’m going to lose this hair, I want to choose what replaces it.”
Frank smiled.
“Fair enough.”
She looked at the tangled mess hanging down her back.
“Besides, I rather like the idea of not having to spend half an hour putting my hair up before school.”
The owner laughed.
“Well, Frank, I expected you to give some fellow a regular haircut. This is going to be quite an interview.”
Frank reached for his scissors.
“All right, Ruth. Let’s get started.”
The First Cut
Frank gathered the first heavy section of hair at the back of Ruth’s head.
He held it firmly between his fingers.
“Ready?”
Ruth looked at herself in the mirror.
“Ready.”
SNIP. SNIP. SNIP.
The scissors worked through the thick hair.
A long section came free.
Frank laid it across the counter.
Ruth stared at it.
“Oh, goodness.”
“That’s only the beginning,” Frank said.
He gathered another section.
SNIP. SNIP. SNIP.
Another heavy length fell away.
Some of the hair contained pieces of gum twisted into the strands.
Frank placed those sections separately.
The owner watched closely.
“That’s a terrible thing those girls did.”
Frank nodded.
“Some people have nothing better to do than make trouble for others.”
The owner touched the bruise on his cheek.
“Believe me, I know.”
Ruth noticed the injury for the first time.
“What happened to your face?”
The owner gave a small laugh.
“Some fellows didn’t like the fact that I wanted to keep my barbershop open.”
Ruth looked surprised.
“Because of the strike?”
“That’s right.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“They hurt my partner worse. That’s why this chair’s empty.”
Ruth looked toward Frank.
“And now you’re going to work here?”
“If the gentleman decides I’m good enough.”
The owner chuckled.
“So far, you’re doing all right.”
Frank continued cutting.
Long brown locks accumulated on the counter and floor.
Within several minutes, Ruth’s waist-length hair was gone.
What remained hung unevenly around her ears and neck.
Most of the gum-filled sections had been removed.
Ruth looked at herself in the mirror.
“I haven’t had hair this short since I was a little girl.”
Frank smiled.
“Well, you haven’t seen short yet.”
The Hand Clippers
Frank reached for a pair of hand-operated clippers.
The owner raised an eyebrow.
“You’re using those?”
“Certainly.”
“I’ve got electric clippers right here.”
Frank examined them.
“Those are fine machines, but I’ve used hand clippers for years. They’re dependable, and I know exactly what they’re going to do.”
He tested the handles.
Click-click. Click-click.
Ruth looked at the clippers.
“Are those going to hurt?”
“Not if I do my job properly.”
He placed his left hand gently on the top of her head.
“Chin down, please.”
She lowered her head.
Frank placed the clippers against the nape of her neck.
Click-click-click-click.
The first strip of hair came off.
Short clippings tumbled down onto the white cape.
Frank worked upward toward the crown, leaving enough length near the top for the flattop.
He made another pass.
Click-click-click-click.
The back of Ruth’s head gradually became closely cropped.
The owner leaned forward.
“Nice even work.”
Frank smiled.
“Thank you.”
He moved to her right side.
“Head straight now.”
The clippers traveled upward from the sideburn area toward the temple.
More hair fell.
Ruth watched the growing pile on her lap.
“My goodness. There’s hardly anything left.”
“That’s the idea,” Frank said.
He carefully worked around her ear, then moved to the other side.
As he worked, Ruth began talking about her schoolwork.
“We’ve been learning how to wire electrical circuits on wooden demonstration boards,” she explained. “I rather enjoy the practical lessons.”
Frank nodded.
“That’s useful work. Plenty of places are getting electricity these days.”
“I hope to find work doing something with it when I finish school.”
“Have you always lived here in Kenosha?”
“No. I was living up in Waukesha before I came down here for schooling.”
Frank stopped briefly.
“Waukesha?”
“Yes.”
“How long did you live there?”
“Most of my life. I came down here because I wanted to attend the technical school.”
Frank resumed working the clippers.
“Well, that’s interesting. I was just reading something about Waukesha.”
Ruth looked at him in the mirror.
“What was that?”
“That little boy they found at the quarry.”
Ruth’s expression changed.
“Oh, you heard about that?”
“I did. Terrible business.”
The owner looked over from his chair.
“What boy?”
Frank continued clipping Ruth’s hair.
“A little fellow they found dead at a quarry up around Waukesha. From what I heard, he couldn’t have been much more than five or seven years old.”
The owner shook his head.
“Good heavens.”
“And the strange part,” Frank continued, “was that the child was supposed to have been dressed in very nice clothing.”
Ruth nodded.
“That’s what people were saying up there.”
Frank worked carefully around her left ear.
“Somebody told me the clothes looked like the sort a family with money would buy.”
“That’s what made everybody talk about it,” Ruth replied. “People couldn’t understand how a little boy dressed like that ended up at a quarry.”
The owner frowned.
“Did he fall in?”
Frank shook his head.
“I don’t know. That’s one of the questions people were asking.”
Ruth looked troubled.
“Some people thought it must have been an accident. Others wondered whether somebody had taken him there.”
“Was he from Waukesha?” the owner asked.
“Nobody I spoke to seemed to know for certain,” Ruth answered.
Frank made another pass with the clippers.
Click-click-click-click.
“That’s what bothers me,” he said. “A boy that young ought to have somebody looking for him.”
Ruth nodded.
“Especially dressed as nicely as people said he was.”
The owner leaned against his barber chair.
“Maybe the family was from somewhere else.”
“That’s possible,” Frank replied.
“Or maybe somebody knew who he was and simply hadn’t heard the news,” Ruth suggested.
Frank nodded.
“Could be. News doesn’t always travel as quickly as people think.”
Ruth was quiet for a moment.
Then she said, “I remember people discussing it in the shops. Everybody had a different idea about what happened.”
“That’s usually how these things go,” Frank answered. “A story starts with a few facts, and by the time it’s been told twenty times, nobody knows which part is true.”
The owner shook his head.
“Poor little fellow. Whatever happened, it’s a terrible way for a child’s life to end.”
Frank continued clipping.
“Yes, it is.”
Ruth watched him in the mirror.
“Do you think they’ll ever find out who he was?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Somebody must have known him.”
“Somebody did,” Frank replied. “A child doesn’t just appear out of nowhere.”
He finished the last pass along the side of her head.
“Well, Ruth, I hope the authorities can give that boy a name and find out what happened to him.”
“So do I.”
For a few moments, the shop grew quiet.
Then Frank brushed the loose clippings from Ruth’s neck.
“All right, young lady. We’ve got the sides and back finished.”
Ruth touched the closely cropped hair above her ear.
“My goodness!”
The owner laughed.
“That’s quite a change, isn’t it?”
Ruth smiled.
“It certainly is.”
Frank stepped backward.
“Now we make it flat.”
The Flattop
Frank dampened the remaining hair and combed it straight upward.
He took a stiff comb and his scissors.
“How long will you leave it?” Ruth asked.
“About an inch at the front, shorter toward the back. Enough to stand up properly.”
He lifted the first section.
Snip-snip-snip.
Small pieces fell across the cape.
He moved backward, using the comb to establish a straight, level surface.
The owner watched carefully.
“You’re keeping that nice and square.”
“That’s what makes a proper flattop.”
Frank continued working.
He checked the front, the crown, and both sides.
Then he used the hand clippers over the comb to refine the shape.
Click-click-click.
He removed small amounts until the top formed a neat, flat plane.
Ruth stared at herself.
“I look completely different.”
“Not finished yet,” Frank said.
He brushed the loose hair from her forehead.
Then he took a little hair dressing and worked it through the remaining hair, combing it upward to help it stand.
He inspected the top from the front and both sides.
A few more careful snips completed the shape.
Finally, he brushed her neck and removed the cape.
Long hair spilled from the fabric onto the floor.
Frank turned the chair toward the mirror.
“There you are, Ruth. One flattop.”
Ruth stared.
Her ears were completely exposed.
The sides and back were closely cropped.
The top stood upright, squared off in a crisp, level shape.
She slowly raised her hand and touched it.
“I can’t believe that’s me.”
Frank smiled.
“Well, it certainly is.”
She turned her head from side to side.
“It’s so short!”
“You asked for short.”
“I know.”
She studied her reflection again.
Then she smiled.
“I actually like it.”
The owner laughed.
“Well, that’s a relief.”
Ruth ran her fingers along the closely clipped back.
“I won’t have to worry about anybody putting chewing gum in all that long hair again.”
Frank nodded.
“And if those girls bother you again, you make sure the school authorities know about it.”
“I will.”
She smiled at her reflection.
“Florence is going to be awfully surprised tomorrow.”
Frank grinned.
“Let her be surprised.”
The Interview Is Over
Ruth climbed down from the chair.
“How much do I owe you?”
The owner named the price, and Ruth opened her purse.
She paid, thanked Frank, and put her hat into her handbag rather than back on her head.
“I think I’ll walk back to the boarding house without it.”
Frank smiled.
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“I’ll probably be the only girl at school with a flattop.”
“Possibly.”
She looked at him.
“Will you be working here next month?”
Frank glanced at the owner.
“That depends on the gentleman standing beside me.”
The owner folded his arms.
“Well, I suppose we’d better settle that.”
Ruth smiled.
“I hope you are. I’d like you to cut it again.”
She thanked them both and walked out.
The bell jingled as the door closed.
For a moment, neither barber spoke.
Then the owner looked at the floor.
Long hair covered the area around the second chair.
He looked at the counter, where the gum-filled sections had been placed.
Finally, he looked at Frank.
“Well.”
Frank smiled.
“Well, what?”
“I asked you to show me whether you could cut hair.”
“And?”
The owner laughed.
“I expected a regular men’s haircut. Maybe a trim or a shave. I certainly didn’t expect a young woman to walk in here with chewing gum all through her hair and ask for a flattop.”
“Neither did I.”
“But you handled it.”
“She knew what she wanted.”
“Most barbers would’ve tried to talk her into something else.”
Frank shrugged.
“She had a problem. I gave her the haircut she asked for.”
The owner looked at Alex’s empty chair.
“Alex won’t be coming in for a while. I could use somebody who knows his business.”
Frank waited.
“But there’s something else we’ve got to discuss.”
“What’s that?”
“The strike.”
Frank nodded.
“I figured we’d get back to that.”
The owner lowered his voice.
“I don’t know whether those fellows are going to come back. They’ve already hurt Alex, and they’ve already hurt me.”
Frank glanced at the bruise on his face.
“I understand.”
“If I hire you, they might decide you’re a strikebreaker.”
Frank shrugged.
“I suppose they might.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it bothers me. Nobody wants to get beaten up for going to work.”
“Then why take the chance?”
Frank looked directly at him.
“Because I’ve got three dollars and forty-seven cents in my pocket, and I don’t know where my next meal is coming from.”
The owner said nothing.
Frank continued.
“I’ve spent years cutting hair in this town. I had a good business. I worked hard for it. Then one night it all went up in smoke.”
He paused.
“I don’t know whether the fire had anything to do with the strike. Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t. But I’m not going to spend the rest of my life standing around wondering who did it.”
The owner nodded.
“I can understand that.”
“I need to work. That’s all there is to it.”
The owner studied him.
Then he extended his hand.
“Welcome aboard, Frank.”
Frank shook it firmly.
“Much obliged.”
“Now, I can’t promise you that things are going to be easy.”
“I wouldn’t expect them to be.”
“And I can’t promise Alex won’t be coming back sooner than we think.”
“He’s your partner. It’s his chair.”
“That’s right.”
Frank smiled.
“Then I’ll keep it warm for him until he’s ready to come back.”
The owner laughed.
“Fair enough.”
He looked toward the front window.
“Now we’ve got to figure out what to call you.”
Frank laughed.
“What’s wrong with Frank?”
“Because that’s my name!”
“Then I suppose the customers will just have to get used to two of us.”
The owner grinned.
“Maybe we’ll put a sign in the window. ‘Two Franks — Twice the Haircuts.'”
Frank laughed for the first time in what felt like weeks.
“That’s not a bad idea.”
Three Dollars and Forty-Seven Cents
Later that afternoon, Frank stood outside the barbershop during a quiet moment.
Across the street, customers were entering the meat market.
A few people walked toward the Strand Theatre to examine the posters.
Students from the technical school passed along the sidewalk, talking about their classes.
But the strike was never far from anyone’s mind.
Farther down the avenue, Frank could see two men standing outside another establishment.
One carried a folded sign beneath his arm.
Frank wondered whether they were union men.
He wondered whether they knew this barbershop was still operating.
And he wondered whether they might eventually come here looking for trouble.
He looked back through the window.
The owner was sweeping hair from around his chair.
Alex Savaglio’s chair stood beside it.
The same chair where Frank had just given Ruth her first flattop.
It was strange how quickly a man’s circumstances could change.
That morning, he had been preparing to leave Kenosha.
He had walked past one closed barbershop after another, convinced that the strike had destroyed any possibility of finding employment.
Now he had a job.
It wasn’t his own shop.
He didn’t own the chairs, the mirrors, or the building.
He was simply another barber working for wages.
But he had something he hadn’t possessed when he woke up that morning.
An opportunity.
