James came in for a haircut on his lunch break. A Native man with hair down to his shoulders. The anniversary of his mother's death is approaching and he wanted his hair cut short in her memory.
He's working now after many stints in prison. From three unstable jobs simultaneously to one that's steadier. He was present when she died. Her last words same out slowly, one breath at a time: "I love you, son... I love you, son... I love you, son..."
James told me he's stayed out of trouble since.
Chris was supposed to be my last trim of the day. He wanted his beard lined. As I cleaned the clippers in preparation, he asked how long I had been a barber.
I'm not a barber, I said, but I started in 1967, cutting hair in college.
Chris told me they had made him take two years of classes in prison before they let him cut the hair of other inmates.
We'd learned more or less the same way, by doing, but only one of us was supervised.
Would you like to do it yourself, I asked.
He nodded, and I handed him the clippers.
As Chris bent over the hand mirror placed on the stool in the hallway, Mark came out of the rest room. He was already well into his Friday night at 1:30 pm.
Why do people with no hair care so much about getting their haircut, he wondered aloud. What's the point?
Mark has a bushy grey beard and usually keeps the long strands on his head under a ball cap.
I could give you trim, I said. Mark is one of a couple guys I know will never ask me for a haircut, so I offer each time I see them, and they turn me down in the same light spirit.
But today, Mark's refusal had an edge.
You know why my hair's thin on top? I had it yanked out in clumps when I was a kid. I got no roots.
That's terrible, I said.
What can you do, he shrugged.
Avoid haircuts, I suppose. And not let anyone ever again touch your head.
