THE
BARBER
SHOP
Just a quiet time — that’s what I keep telling myself. Looking out onto the high street, I’m struck by how many hairless scalps there are. Why? Why do they do it? Or the other extreme — lank, shoulder-length locks that do no justice to the male species.
I’ve been delivering my service here in this shop for nearly seventy years. Apprentice to my dad — rest in peace. I wonder if he’d be surprised to see the same brown leather pews, a bit scuffed now and saggy where hundreds of behinds have settled over more than a century. His crystal chandelier doesn’t get cleaned as much as it did, though. I remember that being one of my first jobs as an eager fifteen-year-old. Not eager to clean the damn thing — eager to get it done and move on to proper barbering. Even the glass bottles, the ones that held lotions and tonics in all the colours of the rainbow, still line the shelves. Nowadays, they just sit there gathering dust.
I wave to Mrs Barrett. She’s turned to look at my barber’s pole — a smile just touching her lips. She waves back and lowers her head. Must be about four years now since she buried Bill. Always liked a hot towel, did Bill.
The shoppers are beginning to gather, as my old pal Mike comes in for his weekly neck shave.
“Pick a chair, Mick… any chair,” I laugh.
“How about this middle oak and walnut one?” he replies.
It’s a joke we have, the two of us. The three identical chairs are relics from the day Dad opened. Mike was my very first client. Came in for a short back and sides. Two of the chairs were occupied by old timers — Farmer Gordon and his neighbour, Farmer Clough. As Mike bounced into the middle seat, he grinned into the mirror and shouted, “A rose between two thorns.” The farmers weren’t amused by his cheek, and I got a clip from Dad for laughing. I’m looking in the mirror now — mournful faces of gold angels scalloped around the edges — and I’m seeing two old timers… still laughing.
Nothing changes much here, and I like it that way. I couldn’t work in one of those modern places. There is one thing that’s different — the smell. You see, they don’t allow pipe tobacco anymore. But I still have the talcum powder, the disinfectant for the razors, the leather, and the soap. I’ve even made arrangements with Mr Walsh, our local undertaker, that I’d like these with me in my coffin.
Another lull. And there goes Jack with his missus, arm in arm. I’m right glad they stayed together. It took Jack six haircuts to get stuff out of his system. We had some good chats.
Just before closing time, young Gareth comes in.
“Hiya, Grandad.” He throws his coat into one of the chairs.
“That’s it then?” I ask him.
He folds his arms and nods his head. I look at him — towering above me. Bright, twinkling eyes. Eighteen years of education. I say eighteen years, ’cause they start at birth these days, don’t they?
“Come on then, lad,” I say, throwing him an apron. “Let’s start with the chandelier.”
