The Magic Barber

All must go. Closing down. Outta here. Goin’ fishin’

Barber shop on Main Street. The mall’s cut the customers, chopped the butcher, the baker makes no dough.

Chairs x 2 Old school. Leather, iron and chrome. A pretty penny at the antique mart, I’ll bet.

Door tinkles as I turn the old bronze knob. He looks at me, sizing up my hair. His own, a silver fringe against my golden bob.

“Excuse me, are the chairs for sale?”

“Fifty bucks a pop, young lady. You want the rest?”

Engravings on the wall, long mirror above the marbled bench. Scissors, combs, bowls, strops. Old magazines, a brass spittoon.

“For your hairstyling salon, right?” he twinkles. Old charmer!

“Grab a seat.”

He spins one round, sits in the other, pushing it back and stretching out his legs.

I do the same. Old leather groans, the footrest eases out, my hands grasp rails worn smooth by generations.

“Just the chairs.”

“Kind of sad to see them go,” he says. “Had my first haircut in this’n, Pa sat there, watched my baby hair fall.

“Long gone now. Grandpa put a board across the arms, sat me down with a cape across my front. Superman and Zorro for kiddies in those days, teenage turtles now.

“Magic in the old boy’s hands. Click go the scissors; click-click-click! Whip on a hot towel, slap on bay rum, and a new man stands up with a smile.

“Now there’s just me. My partner was busy too, back in the day. Flat out all morning and lunch, couldn’t scratch ourselves. Take a break in the arvo, coffee from the shop next door, tell each other stories.”

Old boarded up cafe, dead flies in the window, rubbish on the floor. No coffee now with Starbucks down the mall.

“Partner went. No work, you see. We’d spend all day sitting in these chairs, telling jokes we knew by heart. Forget ‘em all now, memory’s gone, God what was his name?

“Queer as a three pound note, he was. Fancy, but. Popular with some, stand ’em up smelling like roses, give ’em a pat on the bum, tell ‘em to go out and win a heart.”

Randy Romeos. Still around, smelling of cheap aftershave, not a thought in their heads but getting between my legs after a couple of drinks. Didn’t win my heart, but. Second prize was all they got. Some of them.

“Some sheila took his place. Lexie. Sexy Lexie,” he sighs. “Tried to attract a new crowd, young, hip. Wonder Woman for the girls, lean over for the geezers. They loved it, but retired, moved away, died off. Heart attack for one guy, right in your chair.

“The old days were best. Give the mayor his trim; mate’s rates for him. Shave the bookie, get a tip. Priest’d come in, confess your sins, always wanted the other guy to trim his curls.”

Up on the wall, an old clock, tick-tick-tick. Maybe I’ll take that too.

“Very accurate, that one, made in London, 1912.” I stretch up to take it down, feel his eyes on my legs.

“Wind it up, six turns every day, key’s on the back.” Old man, hair gone, memories following, will the fish escape? Will he care?

“Xavier. That was his name. Funny old bugger. Stick around, I’ll remember you some of his jokes.”

You know, I never sold those chairs. We sit in the sunroom, our fingers stroking the soft old leather, some thoughtful Romeo and I, telling each other jokes, remembering the lads, the mayors, the gaytimes, standing up with a smile and doffing our capes.

Zorro rescues Wonder Woman. The ending’s always happy.

Britni