Short Back and Sides

Here's a (very) short story that I prepared for my writing group yesterday. It was partly inspired by passing a barber's shop on my morning run and realising how much I miss them now that I no longer have the need to use them, and partly by the group leader Kate Dunn's blog entry on using doors, gates and entrances in your writing.

SHORT BACK AND SIDES

George Pearson viewed with disbelief the elderly man staring at him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a good look at himself in the mirror, but he certainly didn't recognise the gaunt figure he saw today. He fastened his winter coat, now looser fitting than he remembered, and brushed off a stubborn cobweb as his spindly fingers slipped the buttons into their holes. A cashmere scarf clung to his scraggly-looking neck, ready to keep out the November chill. Finally he perched his favourite Borsalino hat on his head and nervously opened the front door. As the cold air darted in and stabbed at his face, he noticed the calendar next to the hall mirror. It hadn't been changed for exactly one year.

George closed the door behind him with a thud full of finality, as if he were slamming shut a book to close a challenging chapter. Flakes of peeling green paint showered onto the welcome mat like dust from that same book. He shuffled timidly along his overgrown front path, through the rusty iron gate that was in desperate need of a lick of paint and a splash of oil, and into the threatening open space of the cul-de-sac, casting an anxious glance around him with every step.

Despite the wintry feel to the day, the sun shone brightly from its angle low in the sky and the occasional bird sang its part in an unfolding avian symphony. It was the exactly the sort of day on which George used to love going for a walk, albeit rarely on his own, but now all he could think of was a similar day the previous November. He made slow, apprehensive progress towards the end of Fenwick Street.

When George turned from the quiet side street into the bustle and noise of the Gloucester Road he immediately felt panic in his bones. A young, female jogger panted breathlessly behind him and caused him to jump, and the roar of a passing number 75 bus delivered another sucker punch to his already fragile confidence. Then he saw the familiar sight of a red and white barber’s pole. He initially walked past it, slowing momentarily to peer through the window of the door beneath it, beyond the sign proclaiming the shop to be OPEN, into the emptiness within. But this was more than just a door to George. It was a portal to so many reassuring memories of happier times: the olfactory assault of pomade; the chirruping chatter of snipping scissors; the softness of the barber’s hands running through his greying but abundant hair; the comforting ebb and flow of countless inane conversations with the affable proprietor. And he realised it was exactly where he craved to be at that moment. He turned sharply on his heels, walked the few steps back to the door and tried the handle.

The door opened with ease and the warmth of the barber’s shop reached out like his mother’s arms to pull him inside. It cradled him like a babe to the bosom and he immediately felt comforted and safe again, the jarring hostility of the outside world left far behind.

Unusually for late on a Friday morning, the shop was empty of customers. It was normally teeming with the testosterone of young men getting spruced up for the weekend. Close to the door a well groomed, olive skinned man with jet black hair stood over a sink; a towel draped over his left arm and a pair of scissors in his right hand. He immediately turned towards the new occupant of the room.

"Signor Pearson, we haven't seen you for such a long time", the barber announced, his accent still more Neapolitan than North Bristol.

"Silvio," George acknowledged with a nod.

"Please, Signor, take a seat".

George sat down, keeping on his hat, scarf and coat, despite the overbearing warmth.

"Short back and sides please, Silvio."

"Signor!" he roared. "You are still wearing your hat".

"Of course, how silly," George mumbled into his scarf, which he then removed and handed to Silvio.

He hesitated before reaching an arm up to his head and lifted his hat by its brim.

The silence of the barber’s shop was shattered by the chiming of freshly sharpened scissors hitting the floor, followed quickly by Silvio's audible gasp.

"SIGNOR!"

"I'm sorry", George sobbed. "It all fell out when my Dorothy..."

"Is OK Signor, is OK". The Italian placed a comforting hand on George's shoulder.

"I haven’t been out for a while. I just wanted someone to have a chat with."

Silvio flipped the shop sign to CLOSED and put the kettle on to boil.