One Way

Robert. That’s my barber’s name. He seems to be between the ages of 65 and 68, at most, based on my personal observations of his speech and the references he makes. My parents would likely know his exact age, but I haven’t felt the need to inquire further. Dealing with barbers, in my opinion, is much more manageable than conversing with doctors. Beyond the obvious professional differences, wherein the latter outweighs the former, the nature of discussions with doctors often places one in an uncomfortably vulnerable position, compelling you to divulge personal details and habits. These can range from diet and vices to sleeping patterns and occasionally even aspects of one’s sex life.

Conversely, speaking with a barber can often be a one-sided affair, where responses are not always necessary. Simple gestures like a wave of the hand, a nod, or a mere shake of the head are enough, especially if you are going to the same one. He’s been the only barber I’ve had growing up, as far as I can remember. As long as you show up for your appointments and allow him to work his craft, compensating him, of course, the conversation can remain bearable.

The Crown

People often say that one’s hair is the crowning glory of their physical appearance. Not for me, though. Despite this, I religiously keep my barber’s appointments as part of my well-kept routine. After all, grooming, if not one of the fundamental social norms one should abide by, is an essential aspect of maintaining good health. Like many, I do everything I can to avoid visiting a medical practitioner, considering the potential disruptions to productivity and the hefty expenses involved.

To be honest, I have a particular aversion to seeing our family doctor, hence the comparison made earlier. It’s not that I dislike the person or any of them—actually, I trust mine completely. I simply don’t fare well in small talk, let alone dealing with health issues or potential confrontations that might arise if any medical problems were to be discovered. He’s all too familiar, and I feel incredibly vulnerable in his presence. It might not be the wisest choice, but I prefer to remain oblivious rather than confront any complexities head-on. Consequently, I try to maintain my health as much as possible on my own.

The Transporter

I live in two different worlds: the conscious world and another realm I enter whenever I drift off. Sitting on the barber’s chair amplifies the latter. Allow me to elaborate. Contrary to popular belief, one should not stand between two opposing mirrors, for this act, though innocent, mimics a passageway through the “limbo”. In the barbershop I frequent, sitting on the barber’s chair feels like stepping through a portal to another dimension. Where exactly do I go, you might ask? It’s challenging to provide a straightforward answer. However, I can share that I find myself transported, living a different life for what feels like years or should I say a timeless void, before being abruptly pulled back to reality when the haircut is over.

When blood is mixed with hair. 

My barber and I share a stringent outlook on life. We both consider living up to agreed-upon commitments as paramount. No excuses. As though his life depended on it, Manong Robert has never missed a day of work. For him, showing up is a critical distinction that sets his shop apart from others. However, one ordinary day, he was involved in an accident on his way over to work, injuring both of his hands. Coincidentally, it was also the day of my haircut appointment with him. Determined, he refused to take the day off and went about his scheduled work for the day.

“A word of caution, please,” Old Robert began. I looked up toward the mirror where an endless row of his reflection could be seen on the opposing mirrors. I listened intently.

“I am currently nursing a few cuts on my hands. They’ve been cleaned and dressed with antiseptic, but I ask that you remain silent throughout our session today. I know you’re not much of a talker, but I’m making this request, nonetheless. Silence is the name of our little game for today.”

I did not say anything.

Apparently, mixing cut hair with someone else’s blood is considered a bad omen. I dared not ask further, of course. I just thought that given his condition, an added distraction could affect his work.

Sheering Lambs

My barber and I continued our routine for a few more months. And without fail, I showed up at every appointment and maintained the same kind of hairstyle. Simple, no frills. While I tried to update my wardrobe from time to time, keeping up with the trends to some extent, I couldn’t help but feel like wearing somebody else’s skin, like that serial killer Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs.

The Vow (aftermath)

Sometime later, Robert passed away. The cause of death was lung cancer. He was a prolific chain smoker apparently. I was surprised at how I was not able to catch that detail about him. I mean, I should have been able to smell him during our sessions, but I didn’t. This only deepened my respect for him. He never married or had any children. At the funeral, there were only a few of his trusted staff, some distant relatives, and me. Eventually, the old barbershop was also gone. It’s been a while since my last haircut. I just couldn’t move on, I suppose.

On my usual route home, I would always pass by this little Korean salon. I may soon try their services. There’s a lady stylist there stationed by their glass window. She had a pale, oval face, not so pretty, however, there was a glow about her that caught my eye. When I look at her, there’s a feeling that I am standing in front of the old barber’s mirror, not a reflection though but an alter ego, a counterpart if you will. If all goes well, I may even consider asking her to marry me and, of course, cut my hair for life. Time will tell.