Dan Simmons - Shave And A Haircut

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Shave and a Haircut, Two Bites

by Dan Simmons

Introduction

My family moved frequently when I was a child. One of the problems of moving—at

any age—is the tedious chore of finding a new doctor, dentist, favorite grocery store

... and barber.

When I was about eight we moved to the small Illinois town of Brimfield, population

less than a thousand, and although the town barely had one of everything—one

store, one doctor, one school—it had two barbers. I re-member my mother taking

my younger brother Wayne and me downtown and entering the first barbershop we

saw.

The wrong one.

I remember the desiccated cactus and the dead flies on the window ledge. I

remember the musty, chewing-tobacco-and-old-sweat smell of the dark interior and

the mirrors that seemed to absorb the light. I remember the old men in bib overalls

who scurried away like cock-roaches as we entered; I remember how startled the

elderly barber was at our intrusion.

I had my hair cut that day, Wayne didn't. It was a ter-rible haircut. I wore my Cub

Scout hat, indoors and out, for three weeks. Mom soon learned that the real

barber-shop was a block down the street. No one went to the shop we had

blundered into. Even the old farmers who hung out there were bald or had never

been seen in a bar-ber chair.

The only interesting part to this anecdote is the epilogue: that same barbershop—or

one just like it—has been in every town I've lived in since.

In Chicago, it was tucked away on an unnamed sidestreet just off Kildare Avenue.

In Indianapolis, it was a short block from the Soldiers and Sailors Monument.

In Philadelphia, it was on Germantown Avenue just across the street from a

three-hundred-year-old haunted house named Grumblethorpe.

In Calcutta—where most people get their haircuts and shaves from sidewalk barbers

who squat on the curb while the customer squats in the gutter—the old shop was

just off Chowringhee Road, tucked under a hundred-trunked banyan tree which is

said to be as old as the earth.

Out here where I live in Colorado, it is on Main Street, between Third and Fourth

Avenues.

Of course it's not the same shop, it's just ... well, the same.

Look around. You'll find it in your community. You don't get your hair cut there,

and no one you know has ever had a haircut there ... and the prices are from a

pre-vious decade if not century ... but ask around. The locals will shake their heads

as if trying to remember a dream, and then they'll say—"Oh, yeah, that place has

always been here. That barber's always been here. Don't know nobody who goes to

'im anymore, though. Wonder how he gets by."

Go on. Work up the courage to go in. Ignore the mum-mified cactus and dead flies

in the window. Don't be dis-tracted by the old men who scurry out the back door

when you come in the front.

Go ahead. Get your hair cut there.

I dare you.

* * *

Outside, the blood spirals down.

I pause at the entrance to the barbershop. There is nothing unique about it. Almost

certainly there is one sim-ilar to it in your community; its function is proclaimed by

the pole outside, the red spiralling down, and by the name painted on the broad

window, the letters grown scabrous as the gold paint ages and flakes away. While

the most ex-pensive hair salons now bear the names of their owners, and the

shopping mall franchises offer sickening cutenesses—Hairport, Hair Today: Gone

Tomorrow, Hair We Are, Headlines, Shear Masters, The Head Hunter,

In-Hair-itance, and so forth, ad infinitum, ad nauseum—the name of this shop is

eminently forgettable. It is meant to be so. This shop offers neither styling nor unisex

cuts. If your hair is dirty when you enter, it will be cut dirty; there are no shampoos

given here. While the franchises demand $15 to $30 for a basic haircut, the cost here

has not changed for a decade or more. It occurs to the potential new customer

immediately upon entering that no one could live on an income based upon such low

rates. No one does. The potential customer usually beats a hasty re-treat, put off by

the too-low prices, by the darkness of the place, by the air of dusty decrepitude

exuded from both the establishment itself and from its few waiting custom-ers,

invariably silent and staring, and by a strange sense of tension bordering upon threat

which hangs in the stale air.

Before entering, I pause a final moment to stare in the window of the barbershop.

For a second I can see only a reflection of the street and the silhouette of a man

more shadow than substance—me. To see inside, one has to step closer to the glass

and perhaps cup hands to one's temples to reduce the glare. The blinds are drawn

but I find a crack in the slats. Even then there is not much to see. A dusty window

ledge holds three desiccated cacti and an assort-ment of dead flies. Two barber

chairs are just visible through the gloom; they are of a sort no longer made: black

leather, white enamel, a high headrest. Along one wall, half a dozen

uncomfortable-looking chairs sit empty and two low tables show a litter of

magazines with covers torn or missing entirely. There are mirrors on two of the three

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Dan Simmons - Shave And A Haircut

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