barber

The door whistled as it opened and a man walked in. Sunlight streamed in through the open windows. Outside, everything was quiet and calm. No one else walked the roads. It was a Sunday morning, and in this country, people slept till noon on a Sunday. Grocery stores opened at noon. This barber’s shop was thankfully open earlier. It could not afford not to be. Shadows followed as the door slid to a close, light being melded through the glass. Inside, a man had been sweeping the floor, and he stood to attention as the customer walked in, hurriedly asked him to take a seat, and scrambled around to find a cloth, which he draped over the customer, and then looked for the other necessary things for a haircut.

“Are you new?” the man seated comfortably in the chair asked the barber, who was scrambling nervously.

“No, sahib, i have been here for almost six months.” His voice sounded raw, as if his throat was sore.

He began to spray water through a small blue plastic spray bottle. The man closed his eyes, feeling refreshed, as the thick mop of hair on his head began to cool down. The droplets of moisture were getting everywhere. He opened his eyes again, as he felt the shaky hands massaging his head. The barber reached for a pair of scissors, and the customer raised a hand from underneath the white cloth.

“Siraf machine.”

He didn’t trust those hands. Just a machine would do an admirable job. It would be safer. It would be faster. It was the last he was concerned about on most days.

“Number, sir?”

“Two.”

“Won’t that be too small?”

“No, it’s fine.”

He flicked the switch audibly, and the machine made the familiar buzzing sound as it turned on. Sunlight streamed in. Outside, there was silence, no cars, no people. Nothing. 

“May i get you something to drink sir?” the barber asked as the machine cut his hair, and he noticed his customer looking outside.

“Nahin yaar.”

Never safe to accept things from places like these. They could be drugged. The chance of that, honestly, was maybe less than ten percent, but would you really take the chance? You could not afford to be the one in ten.

A horn honked, both men looked outside, the machine stopping, as a car passed by. It was about ten am. He could smell the sterile scent of dettol. He gripped the fake leather armrests of the chair. Thick hair brushed softly against his face as it fell. His nose felt itchy. He could feel hair in his earlobes. He raised a finger to scratch his nose, and saw hair fall from his head down to his shoes. He shook them vigorously. The man continued to buzz the head in front of him in silence. Then it was done.

He massaged the head, applied a soft brush, then lathered some powder on it. Hands still nervous. The customer saw, through the mirror, beads of sweat forming on the forehead of the barber. It wasn’t that hot. Sigh. 

The barber brought over a blade, unwrapped it in front of the customer, who raised his hand for the second time.

“Nahin.”

With shaky hands like that, he couldn’t trust that the barber would be safe about this.

“Ok, sir.”

He began to brush off the remaining hair, and then he grabbed the prone machine, and began to smash into the head of his customer. The first few times, shock, then pain paralyzed the man in the chair, then he passed out. The barber began smashing in, until the head caved in, until the white cloth was completely red.