As the final pile of hair clippings are swept into the dustpan, a faint tap-tap from the front of the shop makes me jump, my glasses sliding crooked down my nose. Straightening from my slouched sweeping stance, I look towards the glass double doors. The blurred image of somebody becomes crisp as I push the glasses back into place. He tap-taps again without looking, his attention on something across the street. “I’m coming,” I proclaim as I make my way to the door. The young man’s jeans are tattered and dusty; a white t-shirt, with a rainbow of stains, seems idiotic in the frigid February weather. He looks at me, his shoulder-length hair swinging behind him, breath fogging the glass and rising to dissipation. We are each a breath in February, I think, as the deadbolt twists open. I crack the door, “We’re closed, I’m sorry,” I say politely.
The man looks at his watch dramatically, hair swinging behind him again, as his head pivots on his neck. He looks like the man from the Paul Mitchell ad, but out of shape, and with what appears to be tiny scars scattered over his face. “The sign says you’re open til’ nine. It’s eight-nineteen.” His voice is timid. He seems rattled to have met so much resistance for a simple haircut. He’s not being rude, but stating fact, so I smile and wave him in.
“Got through my appointments, decided to close down shop a little early. I can do one more.” Every dollar I can make is worth the work. Salon chains are popping up like sores on a pornstar these days. I’ve been lucky to stay in business for as long as I have.
He walks past me towards the row of chairs, eyes scanning the floor. After nearly running into the counter, he jukes around, his feet clanging as they cross beneath him. “You okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says, his voice still low. “Just need a haircut. I have. Uhh. A job interview tomorrow.” His lips stretch into a smile.
“I can certainly do that for you. Take the third seat, over there,” I say, pointing to the corner. “I’ll be back in just a sec.” I go to the sink and wash my hands. When I come back, he’s sitting in the chair, cape already wrapped around his torso. I walk up behind him and take two tufts of hair between my fingers. “Just a trim, I’m guessing?” His hair is thick and admirable; it’s nice that he keeps it properly groomed.
He looks into the mirror and combs through the long locks. He nods in disproval and chokes “Take it all off.”
“All of it?” I say in disbelief. “You have beautiful hair… It’d be a sham…”
“All of it,” he interrupts. “It. It’s an office job. Strict.” He pauses, “Strict on appearance.”
“If you’re sure,” I say as I open the drawer where I keep the scissors. I scrunch his hair and realize it’s damp. It’s not sticky, like a hair product, just damp. The sour smell of perspiration swirls into my nostrils, tears of some sort building in the corners of my eyes. “How bout a wash before we start?”
“That’s okay,” he replies sharply, “You’re cutting it off anyways.” Unable to argue his logic, I open the jar of Barbicide, fish a comb from the cluster, and begin to work out the inner tangles, the rotten smell. “It’s really stupid that they judge that way. Especially with hair this perfect.” Wouldn’t be wrong to judge that smell, though. “It seems you’ve had a busy day,” I say, feeling bold.
He doesn’t answer right away as he glares into the mirror. At first, I thought he was vain, but no, not with all those scars. “It’s begun to snow.” He sounds like a mystified child, “Could you turn me around? I like to watch it fall.” I look to the bottom left of the mirror and see some snowflakes swirling to the street.
“It’s only a flurry,” I say as I turn the chair, “but surely you’re welcome to look.” Again, my words defy his ears; he just stares out the window as I quickly cut through his hair layer by layer, inch by inch. “So what kinda work do you do?”
He continues to scan the street outside, his head turning slightly as he fixates on the scarcely falling flakes. “I work, for the federal government. Trying to move up in rank,” he says, sounding unsure.
“That sounds interesting. Is it dangerous?” He tilts his head and looks up at me from an odd angle, his mouth slightly agape. “Are you stationed around here? Didn’t think there was ever a federal facility in Brisbon.
“No, I’m just. I’m passing through. I’ve really said all I can,” He says self-righteously, “This is highly classified, highly sensitive information and I’d prefer if you could just cut my hair. I’d like to get to bed at a decent time. The interview is very early in the morning.” I want to cry, and to cut off one of your ears.
I apologize. “It’s quite alright,” he replies as he gazes back to the street. “Made me miss the last of the snow.” I apologize again. This time, he brushes it off. “How much longer, do you think?”
“I’m finished trimming. How close do you want it?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I can do a six on top. Four or five on the bottom.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he repeats, a hint of anger woven into his voice, “Just get on with it.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say to him in a mocking tone. Just one ear. If it started snowing again, he wouldn’t even notice. “I’m just gonna turn on the radio, then I’ll finish you up in a jiffy.” I turn the dial to 105.9, The X, where the Penguins are playing the Capitals. I’d wanted to make it home before the game started, but I do prefer the radio announcers over those on the nationally televised games. I use the six attachment for the top and decide on the five for the bottom. Maybe I’ll mess up the back a little bit.
I’d already missed a good portion of the first period; the contest is tied at one apiece. Kris Letang is in the box for slashing with thirty seconds left on the penalty. Niskanen and Brouwer pass it back and forth along the right board, while Ovechkin freewheels in the empty area near the point.
“Are the sides okay?” I ask him.
“They’re fine,” he says without looking.
“Eeeeeeerrrrrrnnnnrrrrrr,” screams the radio, frustration building in my head. God doesn’t want me to care about hockey. “This is the emergency alert system,” This is only a test, blahblahblah. The man still stares, unhinged by the ungodly sound of the radio siren. He scratches at his ribcage under the cape.
“It’ll just be a couple more minutes.”
“Fine.”
“… bodies were discovered at eight-fifteen this evening,” says the officer through the radio.
“Oh, my,” I say, surprised there’s a real emergency.
“Oh my indeed,” he says, with no real concern.
“… the suspect fled the scene on foot heading east on Seventh Street. A witness said he was wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers jacket. We found said jacket a block from the scene of the crime.”
“That’s not too far from here,” I tell the man, worry growing in my voice, “Do you think they’ll call for federal help?”
“Depends on the case.”
“… He’s a white male, about six feet tall. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and black sneakers. He isn’t armed that we know of, but is to be considered very dangerous.”
“This type of thing doesn’t happen around here,” I say bewildered.
“I’m sure it doesn’t,” he replies.
“… the witness noticed a scar on his cheek as he brushed by and said the suspect’s hair was quote, admirable.”
My eyes widen in horror as I look down at the man in my chair. In a matter of one second, his cape is hanging in the air, discarded hair raining to the swept floor, as he jams a hypodermic needle into my carotid artery. His thumb rests on the plunger for a second, then pushes it down, the contents flooding my bloodstream. I stumble backwards towards the mirror, sit on the table. He stands and walks to me, drags me into the seat. “You’ll be okay, pretty,” he says before kissing me on the forehead, taking my keys, and walking out the backdoor.
I drift in to unconsciousness, his sour smell fermenting in my lungs.
