Patches of hair littered the ground. I always found it strange, watching my dark brown hair fall to the floor. It was weirdly satisfying, a sort of cleansing if you will. But I always hated those few pieces that stayed behind. I always hated how they’d sneak under your shirt and scratch at your neck. It wasn’t the itching sensation that I hated; it was the fact that those individual hairs were all that stood in my way. The follicles on the ground knew it was their time to go. Each of those follicles knew it was time for me to start over, to cleanse myself. Those last few hairs, however, didn’t get the memo.
I quickly forgot about the obstacle those hairs represented, instead looking forward to how nice a shower would feel when I got home from the barber shop.
That’s when I glanced up at the man cutting my hair. He was rather tall, a little chubby too. He wore a white polo, slightly stained by the blue barbicide he used on each of his customers. His countenance seemed to hint towards content before finding comfort in a subtle scowl. Oh, and he was bald.
I had been coming to Brett’s Barber Shop on Penn Avenue for years, but never have I seen this guy. I never wore my glasses during a haircut, so it always made the end result a bit of a surprise. I was suddenly overtaken by nerves. How the hell was I supposed to trust a guy to cut my hair, when he doesn’t even have any of his own?
So, I asked him that very question.
He initially laughed the question off.
I was a little nervous that his bald head was just the result of chemotherapy or something, but that turned out to not be the case. He tried to convince me (and did a darn good job, I might add) that a bald head is actually the most difficult hairdo- or lack thereof- to maintain. It required constant maintenance, and precise shaving. Not a single strand of hair could be left behind on a bald head. If there was one man who knew something about cleansing, it was the bald barber.
Before I knew it, I was sharing my story with the bald barber. Yes, even I have a story.
I told him about my wife, a teacher at the high school down the street. I told him about my childhood friend now working on Wall Street. I told him about my last job as a columnist for the Gazette and how I’m still looking for something that has half as much of an impact as that job did.
“There just isn’t much room in this world for creative minds anymore, y’know?”
The bald barber begged to differ. He tried to convince me (and once again, did a pretty darn good job) that cutting hair is an art form. He told me that he and every other barber at Brett’s had incredibly creative minds, and just needed a place to prove it.
I told him the Gazette was that place for me, and then admitted I was currently unemployed.
I explained how being unemployed really takes a toll on a marriage.
“My wife, great woman. Beautiful, smart.” I told the bald barber. “But if she’s not sleeping with someone in that school of hers, she’s even more amazing than I thought.”
I began to think I was getting too personal. Who wants to listen this crap? Especially when trying to create art, as the bald barber puts it.
I glanced at his face. He had intense features, accentuated by the sheen of his scalp. His natural expression had not changed from when I first started talking. This guy knew how to listen, and didn’t particularly care what he was listening to. He didn’t overthink things, happily responding to everything I shared.
He didn’t try to assure me of my wife’s loyalty. In fact, he said I might be right.
“You know, I bet it’s a kid too. At least they’re going places,” I said.
He wiped a bead of sweat off of his smooth head.
“What do you think?” He spun my chair around and handed me my glasses.
I looked into the mirror. For a second, I saw myself. Unemployed, broken marriage, but with a fresh head of hair. For another second, I saw the bald barber. Content, simple, bald.
Then, like a camera coming into focus, I saw it. My wife, across the street from Brett’s Barber Shop, sharing a kiss with Allegheny County’s finest- star student Luke Daniels. The kid had long, flowy hair down to his shoulders. My wife had similar hair, only it was even longer. I watched their faces pull apart, and then push back together. Apart and together. It was like she knew I was watching!
“Could you do me a favor?” I asked the bald barber. He glanced at me via the mirror.
“Shave it all,” I told him.
The bald barber smiled, and quickly got back to work.
I didn’t know where I was or where I was going, but for the first time in my life, I was truly cleansed.