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.

Patient’s Ward, Nightfall, 1998.

Ever since the car accident, I have been spending most of my time alone. Being confined to a chair, I undoubtedly face certain limitations, like going out to see the town, meeting up with friends, and taking overseas trips that would entail even more difficulties.

My writing desk was situated on the south wing of the room, which meant no windows and, consequently, no distractions while I worked. One evening, unable to pen the last piece due for the week, I decided to wheel out to the balcony to get some fresh air, hoping to momentarily urge my mind away from thinking and to absentmindedly drink coffee. The sun was setting behind a cluster of clouds, bleeding throughout that afternoon sky shades of pink, as if saying, life is grand and beautiful, beckoning everyone who’d look up to realize. Yet, I only felt mockery from it, I felt only disdain towards everything. “How can it be so callous of my situation?” I eventually gave up the thought and redirected my attention to the burning cigarette between my fingers.

“At least this smoke replenishes my departing soul,” I caught myself muttering.

Failing to notice it at first, the book of matches resting on the side table had begun to peculiarly move. It was trembling, as if something in it, something living, was desperately trying to escape captivity. And one by one, the matchsticks, as if Lilliputians from Gulliver’s Travels, had managed to push themselves out of the little blue drawer of the box that confined them, struggling to stand and find their balance at first, but they were able to eventually succeed, now conquering the full surface of the table.

Unable to administer an appropriate reaction, I was just there staring, frozen.

“Hello,” was the only thing I could think of saying after some time.

Of course, there wasn’t a response. They appeared to be communicating with each other, however wordlessly — there weren’t any sounds nor facial reactions that can be solicited from their small red oval heads. It was everybody’s guess what they were talking about.

I looked around to see if anybody was filming me. This could be a practical joke from one of those hidden camera shows.

I tried again, but there was no reaction still. This time, they were helping pick each other up, helping those struggling to get out of the matchbox. A standard matchbox has about 50 sticks in it. I reckoned there were about the same number. Some of them huddled around in circles, breaking into even more small groups after what appeared to be discussions. I was watching them like a kid with an ant farm.

I carefully wheeled back into the room. Fetched the camcorder to film the phenomenon. When I returned, they had already started what I feared they’d do.

One by one, they scratched their little heads against the sides of the box, incinerating themselves. Once the others have seen the charred remains of their companions, the sight had apparently encouraged them to do just the same. It was a mass suicide.

I tried to stop the lunacy, but a group of matchstick men lined up in an attempt to stop my backhand.

These men, as if pleading, moved from side to side, swaying, chanting inaudibly, then jumping off the edges of the side table onto the balcony floor and into the apartment, starting the old newspaper clippings, the papers that I was working on, creating a monstrous fire troll which devoured the sheets of the bed, the bed itself, and whatever it could find in its path.

God knows how hard I had tried to phone the building super, but the army of burning matchstick men tried to get me.

I think they’re after me still. I can see them hiding by the candles at the altar across the nurse’s station.

 

Raging Bull

It was a little past 2am when I heard the knocking on the door. Raging Bull was on TV but it was more for background noise. It was Jessie, from two floors up. “Hey, listen man. I know this is out of the blue but do you mind lending me a few hundred? I’m with this girl back in my room and she wants to go out and do some dancing.” We were not particularly close, but I didn’t mind. I have a soft spot for drunk angry men who rarely win in life. I reached for my wallet and gave him what he came down for. He took the money, and thanked me, I closed the door behind me and poured myself another cold foamy beer from the fridge. I got back to bed and watched how Sugar Ray Robinson had almost sent Jake LaMotta (De Niro) to his grave. I then wondered what the boxing ring canvas might have looked like in the real fight. Beaten and bloodied while the whole world was watching, but Sugar Ray never got him down — what a prize bull indeed, I thought.

 

 

Espionage

A man walked into a bar. In fact, I often see him there, sitting quietly still on his stool recluse every night. He would order the same thing over, two shots of bourbon, three bottles of beer and he is done, steps out of the bar like clockwork. Curious, I asked the barkeep, “What’s his story?” He then leaned closer and whispered, “I heard he accidentally killed his wife and did time for manslaughter, locked up for twenty-something years. Some even say that he used to be a government spy, even arguing that he’s still active, called away every now and then but nobody knows for sure. I then asked the barkeep, “What do you make out of it?” “To be frank, I don’t like wading in those waters. People come here to drink, and I think they ought to stick with that instead. In here, it’s Casablanca, and we’re neutral. I’m Rick Blaine and it doesn’t matter which side you’re on. Outside, you can be whatever you like, be a rabid Grizzly bear for all I care.” And with that, I finished my drink and paid up. I walked out of the bar and followed the animal path deep into the forest, back to my cave, where I hibernated for six months.

 

 

Concert Tickets

I think I was thirty-two at the time. A friend and I were on the way over to see a concert by this popular band from overseas. He had a hot date waiting for him there and he had me tagging along just in case he got stood up or if things just didn’t work out. I didn’t mind being the third wheel and all, for as long as I scored free concert tickets. Being well-off with his generous nature, I’m pretty sure that he had paid for the girl’s ticket as well, I thought, I might as well enjoy it. We had set out early to avoid the anticipated heavy traffic but for some reason, we’re still running late. Jittery, fearing that we might miss the show, I kept on rotating the knobs on the radio in the poor attempt to distract myself, I was even playing with the automatic windows of the car but the only thing racing was my brain, we were at a complete standstill. I then pulled out a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, placing one between my lips even though I was aware of the no-smoking policy inside my friend’s car. The traffic lights kept taunting us, mocked us even, changing, from amber to red, to green, engines were revving up and low, in complete anticipation, yet no car seemed to move. This felt like an eternity, a grim glimpse of purgatory, I thought. We were trapped, like sardines in tin cans, as if all the luck in the world, no matter how eager we sought to bargain with fate, all its tickets, had completely been sold out.