TheNightBarber
The faded sign suspended in the window said simply BARBER. Inside, a small brass bell attached to the heavy oak doorframe clinked once when Arthur stepped out of the afternoon glare and into the cool, still air of the shop.
It smelled of old lather, floor wax, sweet tonic, and stale tobacco. Behind the single hydraulic chair stood a young woman, small-framed and lean, who looked like she had walked straight out of a basement punk show into a dusty mid-century parlor. Her head was closely shaved on the sides, but the top erupted into a wild, jagged crest of spikes dyed a clash of electric blue, faded magenta, and sunflower yellow.
Thick, black-rimmed horn-rim glasses sat crooked on her nose, bridging two delicate silver hoops pierced through her left nostril and another clipped through her lower lip. A dense collage of dark ink covered her neck and spilled out down both arms—intertwined roses, swallowed sparrows, geometric line-work, and jagged block lettering that Arthur couldn’t quite decipher from the doorway.
She was leaning back against the marble counter, working a wooden toothpick between her teeth.
“Sit,” she said. Her voice had a raspy, gravelly edge to it, like a motor idling cold.
Arthur hung his jacket on the wall hook and sat in the worn black vinyl chair. He adjusted his collar, looking at her in the wide mirror framed by green glass jars of Barbicide.
“Just a trim, please,” Arthur said, resting his hands flat on his knees. “About half an inch off the top. Keep the sides neat and tapered.”
She didn’t reach for a pair of shears or a comb. Instead, she slipped a hand into the front pocket of her dark canvas apron, pulled out a crumpled pack of Winstons, and tapped one out against her thumb. She popped it between her lips and struck a silver Zippo with a sharp clack.
She took a long, slow draw, the tip glowing cherry red, and exhaled a thick plume of blue-gray smoke straight up toward the acoustic ceiling tiles. She didn’t put the lighter away; she just let the cigarette hang casually from the corner of her lip, squinting against the rising haze as she reached for a black cape.
“Half an inch,” she repeated flatly. “Right.”
She snapped the cape around his neck, pinching the plastic collar tight.
“Uh,” Arthur said, shifting under the vinyl. “Are you allowed to smoke in here?”
“I haven’t had a break since eight this morning,” she said, her voice gravelly around the dangling filter. “You want a haircut or a lecture?”
“A haircut,” Arthur said.
“Then keep your mouth shut.”
She reached down, grabbed a pair of heavy chrome clippers from the hook, and flicked the switch. The motor gave a loud, metallic buzz-buzz-hum. Without a guard on the blade, she pressed her left palm firmly onto the top of Arthur’s head, tilting his chin down, and drove the clippers straight up the center of his skull.
A thick, dark swath of three-inch hair collapsed forward into his lap.
“Hey!” Arthur gasped, his eyes widening in the glass. “I said a trim!”
She took another drag, her eyes narrowing behind the thick lenses as smoke curled up around her nose. “You had a mop, buddy. Look at you. You look like an accountant who gave up on his youth ten years ago and goes home to eat frozen TV dinners in the dark.”
“I am not an accountant,” Arthur protested, trying to turn his head back. “I’m a librarian!”
The clippers paused for a fraction of a second. She held them mid-air, a thin trail of gray ash trembling on the tip of her Winston. She looked at his reflection, her eyebrows rising slightly above the black frames of her glasses.
“A librarian,” she repeated, a cold little smirk touching the corner of her mouth. “Jesus. That’s even worse. Books and quiet. Exciting life.”
“And I don’t eat TV dinners,” Arthur added firmly. “I’m actually a very good cook.”
She let out a short, bark-like laugh that sent a tiny ring of smoke fluttering into the air. “A cooking librarian. Stop it, you’re breaking my heart.”
She shoved his head back down with the palm of her hand and jammed the clippers back into his scalp. She worked in long, aggressive passes, taking off large sheets of hair that rained down over his shoulders and gathered in the fold of the cape. She shaved down the right side, peeling away his sideburns completely, then moved behind him to strip the nape of his neck clean to the white skin underneath.
“I’m doing you a favor,” she scoffed over the hum of the motor. “You don’t need hair, librarian. Look at you whining. ‘Oh no, my precious locks!’ A grown man whimpering in a barber chair.”
“I’m not whimpering,” Arthur said, though his voice sounded thin even to him.
“You’re about two seconds away from tears,” she said.
She flicked the clippers off with a loud snap. Arthur’s head was stripped down to a rough, shadowy stubble. He looked entirely different—his ears stuck out more, and his jawline looked sharper, exposed to the harsh overhead light.
“Now for the fun part,” she murmured.
She reached for a lather machine on the counter, pumping a huge, warm mound of white shaving cream into her bare hand. She slapped it onto the top of his head with a wet smack, using both hands to spread it vigorously over his scalp, behind his ears, and down the back of his neck.
She retrieved a straight razor from a glass jar, wiped the steel blade down on a white hand towel slung over her shoulder, and strode around to face him. She held his chin firm with her thumb and forefinger, her tattooed knuckles resting cold against his skin.
“You’re actually shaving it all off?” Arthur asked, staring at the long blade.
“You want to walk around looking like a half-plucked chicken?” she sneered, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “You aren’t built for hair, baldy. Accept your destiny. You were born to be a bald freak.”
She set the flat of the razor against his forehead and dragged it back in a single, smooth stroke. The steel made a dry, crisp crunching sound as it scraped away the stubble and cream, leaving a strip of pale, bare scalp in its wake. She wiped the blade on the towel and took another drag from her cigarette, the paper burning down almost to her yellow-stained fingernails.
She worked methodically, short and precise strokes peeling away every last trace of stubble. She shaved around the contours of his skull, her breath smelling faintly of menthol and black coffee against his cheek. When she reached the back of his neck, she held his head down so hard he could feel the press of her silver rings against his skin.
When the last bit of foam was gone, she picked up a lukewarm towel and vigorously scrubbed his head clean, rubbing until his skin tingled.
“Not done,” she said, setting the towel down.
She reached for a small round tin labeled High-Gloss Finishing Wax. She dug out a thick dollop of amber grease with two fingers, rubbed her palms together until it melted, and slapped both hands onto his head. She worked the wax deep into his bare scalp with firm, circular motions, buffing the skin with a fresh microfiber rag until the overhead light reflected in a sharp, blinding circle on top of his head.
She stepped back, leaning her hip against the armrest, and blew her final cloud of gray smoke straight past his ear.
“Look at that,” she snickered, her voice full of dry mockery as she tapped the ash off into an empty mug. “Pure glass. Look at you in the mirror, baldy. An absolute bald freak.”
She unhooked the cape with a sharp snap and whipped it away. A heavy pile of dark hair tumbled off the vinyl and scattered across the cracked linoleum floor.
Arthur sat still for a moment, the cool air of the air conditioner washing over his exposed scalp. He reached up with one hand, gently tracing the smooth, polished surface. It was cold, tight, and completely hairless. He looked up into the mirror.
She stood there with her hands stuffed into her apron pockets, her head tilted, a smug, mocking grin plastered across her face while the dying cigarette teetered from her lip.
Arthur stood up from the chair. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his leather billfold, and took out a crisp fifty-dollar bill. He laid it flat on the glass counter next to the Barbicide jar.
She looked down at the bill, then looked up at him through her thick lenses, raising one eyebrow. “A fifty? Generous baldy.”
Arthur smoothed the front of his shirt and adjusted his cuffs. “What time do you finish here tonight? I’d like to take you out to dinner.”
The woman froze. Her mouth stayed open slightly, the cigarette filter sticking to her lower lip. Her eyes widened behind her heavy frames as she stared at him.
Then her chest heaved, and she burst into a hard, ringing laugh that echoed off the tile walls. She shook her head, her yellow, blue, and red spikes flopping wildly.
“Jesus,” she rasped, shaking her head as she wiped a tear from behind her glasses. “You are something else.”
She reached onto the register counter, grabbed a thick black grease pencil, and tore a ragged corner off a paper receipt. She scribbled seven digits on the back, stepped right up to him, and slapped the tacky, wet slip of paper directly onto his shiny, polished forehead.
“Eight o’clock, baldy,” she said, turning back toward the sink to wash her hands. “Don’t be late.”
