The Barber
by Thad Curtis
I want to write a story about a barber. The kind of guy that works in the old-styled barber shop with the local gas station calendar on the wall behind the cashier's counter. With a few mirrors, maybe two chairs for cutting and a lot of red imitation leather soft chairs for sitting and talking. The kind of chairs with metal legs and round seats and the back is covered and padded like the seat. There's a ceiling fan above one of the cutting chairs with a light coming from the fan. It's got wooden arms and a slight build-up of dust from the day before because the barber forgot to dust before he left. The barber is an older gentleman with thinning hair and a growing belly. He always chews bubble gum, the same kind he leaves on the counter next to the cash register for the folks to help themselves as they leave.
The floor is white tile with black lines where the grout is. Two magazine racks share the walls on the side of the shop where the visitors sit. Nobody really reads them, they're just there. The barber has gentle eyes, a soft blue color with descriptive eyebrows. Those eyebrows always give away what he's thinking. It always shows and he has the wrinkles to prove it. Wrinkles of laughter during happier times, creases made by worry and sadness, soft ripples of reflection. He doesn't wear glasses. He always would say his good eyes were why he was such a great barber.
But everybody knew that wasn't why they came to his shop. They came for him. And there were a lot of people that came. Like old Kyle Lorrdin who, after he had gone bald, kept coming to the shop to get a shave. He said he could have shaved himself, but he just came for the bubble gum. The kids always liked the gum too. Some of them would try to sneak in to snatch a few pieces. The barber always caught them because of the bell above the door. But he didn't mind. His stuff was free.
Free advice to Joe Contuelli before he got married, free newspapers he'd put with the magazines, even free cuts for Marley Durwin when he was real sick. Marley's last cut was four days before he died. He knew he was going. They all knew. That's why the barber asked Marley why he wanted his hair cut. Marley looked back over the cutting chair and gave the barber a sly grin. He said, "Well, you'll probably be cutting it for the funeral anyway. I'd rather you cut my hair when I'm alive than dead, so I can complain if it's a bad job." Marley was always comfortable talking about the things nobody wanted to. He said he'd been born and made his run in life, now he'd die and make his run wherever he ended up.
It was always warm in the shop and the fan was always moving slow, round and round, everyday like a clock that doesn't stop except at closing time. The barber would sweep the hair into a pile and think about how much hair he'd tossed into the bin out back over the years. He never came to any real number and it didn't matter. They would always come back again. But not the barber.
This was his last day. Just like the last day of school when all the boys would run in after class and get buzzed for the summer. The barber emptied the bubble gum dish, then stopped. He put the pink wrapped cubes back and smiled. His eyebrows told it all. Someone would be back and they may like the gum. Someone always comes back.
The barber walked out of the door letting the brass bell ring. He started down the street as the sun was setting, leaving a gentle show of orange and red and purple. And through the waning light, the barber saw the emerging glow of the moon coming through the twilight.
About the author:
Thad Curtis should have been born in a different era. An era when men wore overcoats and hats. As it is, he is currently a full-time student earning his MBA and working as a business consultant.
Thad is a devoted husband and father. When he's not attempting to read Moby Dick to his four children, you'll likely find him napping in his hammock, watching old black and white movies, or browsing thrift shops.
Thad is co-author of Pocatello in Print: From the Archives of the Idaho State Journal.
About the artist:
Amanda Walsh is a public relations writer and graphic designer who dabbles in drawing and painting. This piece was completed almost 20 years ago. Amanda always thought this image evoked an air of mystery, and would be a great piece for storytelling.
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