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Sunday, January 29, 2006
The Barber
Short Story By: Victor M.
Pink Floyd referred to it as a “momentary lapse of reason”. That instance when you make a decision that could lead you into a lifetime of regret; when just a split second makes the difference between harmony and disaster. I faced such a moment while on a business trip to Omaha, Nebraska.
A two-week consulting assignment was extended to six weeks. I decided to stay in Omaha rather than travel back home on weekends. I figured I’d do some sightseeing, only to learn that the most exciting part of being six weeks in Nebraska was watching my hair grow. And it was hair growth that brought me face to face with my “momentary” moment.
Looking through the window of the barbershop next to my hotel, I hesitantly contemplated going in to get a trim. Having been accustomed to haircuts at salons, with shampoo and conditioner, by female haircutters in trendy clothes and funky hair-dos, I had grown to disdain the antiquated and outdated barbershop. Ignoring the “Special on Crew Cuts” sign at the door, I figured how bad could it really be?
I asked the barber if he could give me a trim. “You bet”, he said. “Now?” I asked. “You bet”, he repeated. Nervously, I sat down on this clunky old chair. I cringed when I realized there would be no shampoo. Heck, he wasn’t even going to wet my hair. He started cutting and talking. And talking. And talking. I tried to tune him out but his monotone voice lulled me to a half-dozed off state. The only other sound I could hear were the shears, snipping away.
Snip… snip… snip. “All done”, he said. Somewhat startled, I returned from my self-imposed trance. I put my glasses on, looked in the mirror, and… I almost died! He had given me a crew cut! A freaking crew cut! No more than a quarter inch of hair was all that was left. I asked angrily, “Didn’t I ask for a trim?” He replied, “You bet!”
I lunged from my chair, grabbed his wrists, his right hand still holding the sears that had just destroyed my life. I violently shook his fragile body, spewing every curse word at him that I could think of. As he tried to push me back, I forced the sharp scissors into his face and shoved them right through his right eyeball, sinking them deep into his skull. Blood and white gook gush out while he screamed loudly. I dropped him to the floor, grabbed my coat, and ran out the door.
Standing outside on the sidewalk, I was startled by the sound of the police officer’s radio. “Good morning”, he said to me. I gave him a faint smile. He opened the door to the barbershop and yelled, “Good morning, Charlie. Everything ok?” “You bet”, answered the old man. Breathing a sigh of relief, I was grateful that my imagination had traveled faster than my physical state.
I looked through the barbershop window once again as Charlie was getting ready to shave someone’s hair off. Turning towards me, the officer asked, “Everything OK?” As I started walking away, my overgrown hair waving wildly in the wind, I turned around and replied: “You bet.”
Pink Floyd referred to it as a “momentary lapse of reason”. That instance when you make a decision that could lead you into a lifetime of regret; when just a split second makes the difference between harmony and disaster. I faced such a moment while on a business trip to Omaha, Nebraska.
A two-week consulting assignment was extended to six weeks. I decided to stay in Omaha rather than travel back home on weekends. I figured I’d do some sightseeing, only to learn that the most exciting part of being six weeks in Nebraska was watching my hair grow. And it was hair growth that brought me face to face with my “momentary” moment.
Looking through the window of the barbershop next to my hotel, I hesitantly contemplated going in to get a trim. Having been accustomed to haircuts at salons, with shampoo and conditioner, by female haircutters in trendy clothes and funky hair-dos, I had grown to disdain the antiquated and outdated barbershop. Ignoring the “Special on Crew Cuts” sign at the door, I figured how bad could it really be?
I asked the barber if he could give me a trim. “You bet”, he said. “Now?” I asked. “You bet”, he repeated. Nervously, I sat down on this clunky old chair. I cringed when I realized there would be no shampoo. Heck, he wasn’t even going to wet my hair. He started cutting and talking. And talking. And talking. I tried to tune him out but his monotone voice lulled me to a half-dozed off state. The only other sound I could hear were the shears, snipping away.
Snip… snip… snip. “All done”, he said. Somewhat startled, I returned from my self-imposed trance. I put my glasses on, looked in the mirror, and… I almost died! He had given me a crew cut! A freaking crew cut! No more than a quarter inch of hair was all that was left. I asked angrily, “Didn’t I ask for a trim?” He replied, “You bet!”
I lunged from my chair, grabbed his wrists, his right hand still holding the sears that had just destroyed my life. I violently shook his fragile body, spewing every curse word at him that I could think of. As he tried to push me back, I forced the sharp scissors into his face and shoved them right through his right eyeball, sinking them deep into his skull. Blood and white gook gush out while he screamed loudly. I dropped him to the floor, grabbed my coat, and ran out the door.
Standing outside on the sidewalk, I was startled by the sound of the police officer’s radio. “Good morning”, he said to me. I gave him a faint smile. He opened the door to the barbershop and yelled, “Good morning, Charlie. Everything ok?” “You bet”, answered the old man. Breathing a sigh of relief, I was grateful that my imagination had traveled faster than my physical state.
I looked through the barbershop window once again as Charlie was getting ready to shave someone’s hair off. Turning towards me, the officer asked, “Everything OK?” As I started walking away, my overgrown hair waving wildly in the wind, I turned around and replied: “You bet.”
