Barbercide

Not a minute after he sat down in the barber’s chair, Ted’s identity vanished. He had made a grave mistake—or rather, the barber had. Not his usual barber, but a replacement, someone who had recently taken over the reins of the shop. 

Ted liked to keep a thick pompadour of hair on top; at times of exertion or tiredness, it would lay down on his forehead like a sleepy cat. The sides and back of his head he kept buzzed almost to the scalp, but the top was sacrosanct; it was part of who he was. And now, it was gone, in one swift pull backward of the barber’s buzzing hand. Ted couldn’t resist looking down to see what had just been amputated, like a man who had accidentally cut off his hand with a chainsaw and had to make sure it actually happened. The thatch of hair settled on the floor of the barbershop, taking its place with the remains of the customers before him, the bright red strands standing out among the browns and blacks and grays. It had all happened so quickly. 

“Supposed to snow tonight,” the barber said, making small talk while Ted’s world came tumbling down, as if he hadn’t just ruined Ted’s life. Ted looked up and forward after that, not taking his eyes off his reflection in the mirror. He was most likely in shock as, in a daze, he paid the barber and put on his coat. 

From the moment he walked out of the barbershop, feeling the cold air on his forehead like never before, Ted was different, lacking in some essential manner, exposed, impotent. His shoulders slumped, and the confidence drained out of him.

It all went downhill from there.

The walk home was shameful. He felt strangers’ eyes on him, mocking him. He heard snickers of laughter as he passed them. Was he imagining it? When he reached his apartment, he hesitated outside the door. His girlfriend, Belinda, was inside, and he just couldn’t bear her mocking. But he couldn’t stand out in the drafty hall forever, either.  

He pushed open the door, and Belinda was coming toward him, pulling a suitcase. In her other hand, she held work clothes on hangers, draped over her shoulder and onto her back.  

“What’s this?” he asked. 

“What the fuck did you do to your head?” she said. 

“Do you like it?” he tried. 

“You look like a moron.” 

He shrugged. “What’s this?” he asked again, looking down at the suitcase. 

“I’m leaving you, Ted.” 

“Just like that?” 

“Well, it’s not just like that, but yes, just like that,” she said, opening the door. “I’ll be back for the rest of my shit tomorrow.” 

“Where will you go?” he said as the door closed behind her. “Is it because of the haircut!” 

He plopped down on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair, which he often did to calm himself, to feel the security of his shock of hair. But, it was no longer there—just rough stubble.  

He slept on the couch that night, which was better than sleeping in a half-empty bed. When he woke, everything was normal for a moment until it all came rushing back to him: Belinda leaving, his hair vanishing, the fill-in barber. That interloper who ruined his life.  

 * * * 

After breakfast, he was restless. It was a Sunday, and though it was a surprisingly warm day—50 degrees—he pulled a ski hat over his head to hide his shame. He went out walking—no destination in mind, just had to get out and think, work off some energy. He found himself in town near the barbershop. The barber was inside setting up for the day: flicking on lights and straightening magazines, turning the TV on to ESPN, whistling a happy fucking tune. 

Ted turned away and wandered back home. Later that afternoon, still restless, he again found himself outside the barbershop. The “Closed” sign was turned, and the barber had his last customer of the day in the chair. Ted sat on a low wall across the street and ate a snack bar, waiting for the barber to finish up. The customer paid, tipped the barber—tipped the fucker!—then left, the barber locking the door behind him. After sweeping up quickly, the barber secured the day’s cash in a safe, turned off the lights, and left. Ted pulled his ski cap lower on his brow and set out after the barber. 

He kept several paces behind. It was evening and getting dark fast. After two blocks, the barber turned right, then made the next left. At the third house on the right, he jogged up the front steps and went to a side door, used a key, and went inside, a lamp coming on a moment later. Now Ted knew where the barber lived. He turned and went back to his own apartment. 

The next morning was Monday, and when he woke—again on the couch—everything was normal for a moment (again) until it all came rushing back to him (again): Belinda gone, his hair on the floor of the barbershop, the interloper barber who ruined his life. 

He showered and ate a lonely breakfast of cornflakes without any fruit because Belinda wasn’t around to buy fresh fruit from the farmer’s market, like she usually did on Sundays. Ted realized his routine was already changing. 

He showered and got dressed and drove to work. Before he had a chance to turn on his computer, his boss, Larry, called him into his office. Ted took off his coat and ski hat and went in. 

“Sit down,” Larry said. He didn’t look Ted in the eye as he spoke, but at the top of his head. “I have some bad news for you, Ted.” Still looking at the hairline. 

“What is it?” 

“Well, this is hard for me, so I’ll just spit it out. We need to make cuts, Ted. I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry for what?” 

“We’re letting you go, Ted.” 

“Just like that?” 

“Well, not just like that. But yes, just like that.” 

“Is it because of my hair?” 

“Your what?” Larry said, his eyes now, finally, drifting down from Ted’s forehead and meeting his eyes. “That’s ridiculous.” 

Ted packed up the few personal items he had and was escorted out of the building by a woman from HR to whom he had spoken once about health insurance (which was now gone). He drove home slowly, in a daze. Not wanting to go to an empty apartment and stare at the walls, which were newly blank where Belinda had removed her watercolors, he found himself parked across the street from the barbershop. Open on Mondays, the pretentious fuck. Ruining as many lives as he could. 

The barber—Ted never bothered to get his name, thinking the original would return any day—drank from a cup of coffee and watched TV. When he was done with the coffee, he wiped off the chalkboard and, in a neater script, rewrote the services offered and prices charged with different colored chalks. Who the hell did he think he was, erasing the writing that had been there forever, written by the rightful barber’s own, steady (if slightly sloppy) hand? 

Ted got out of the car and walked past the barbershop en route to the bagel store. He picked up an onion bagel with cream cheese and a coffee and then went back to his car. He felt like he was on a stakeout, and he guessed he sort of was. It gave him time to reflect on the last few days, reflect on his life. No hair, no girlfriend, no job. And if the trend continued, no apartment if he couldn’t afford the rent without another person picking up half of the tab. 

By the time Ted had eaten his breakfast, the barber had finished writing on the blackboard. He had added a heart in one corner, a flower in another, the sun in another, and, in the last corner, a cat face with whiskers. This guy was too much. No one was this happy. Ted couldn’t take any more. He started his car and headed for his apartment, where he could stew and review his ruined life in the privacy of his own home—while he still had one. The barber did this to him. There was only one solution now. 

The barber would have to go.  

* * *  

How does one go about killing someone, Ted wondered. In old movies, it looked easy—they’d cut someone’s brakes. How did you do that? Surely, modern cars must be different. Ted could barely change his oil—not that he’d even done that for years. And what if you did cut the brakes? That’s no guarantee of anything. He might just hit another car pulling out of a parking space. That wouldn’t kill him. Not like on TV when they’d dramatically and fatally drive off a cliff and burst into flames. So that idea was out. 

A gun? Ted never fired a gun in his life. Wasn’t there a waiting period, a background check? Plus, then he’d be on record as having bought a gun. It had to be more anonymous than that. 

Poison? What kind, and where do you get it? And then what? Drop it in his coffee? 

Ted pondered these questions over the next few weeks. To kill time (since that was the only thing he could kill, apparently), he updated his résumé and sent it to a few job postings. Belinda sent him three apologetic, exploratory texts during this time, which he hadn’t responded to. He wasn’t ready yet. Or, maybe, he was playing hard to get. 

One morning—the same morning he realized the top of his hair was long enough now that it actually needed a dab of gel—he got a bite on his résumé. Would he be willing to do a phone interview, they wanted to know. He’d prefer it, in fact, so they couldn’t get a look at his freakish head. 

The phone interview went very well, and an in-person meeting was set up for the next week, which gave his hair even more time to grow. In a burst of optimism, Ted texted Belinda an emoji of a hand waving hello. An hour later she replied with the same emoji. 

Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. 

 * * * 

Six weeks after the “incident” (as Ted cataloged it away forever in his brain), he found himself back outside the barbershop. A lot had happened in those six weeks—a whirlwind, a lifetime—and he felt renewed. A new job, which actually paid him a better salary than his old one. Belinda, back in the fold, her watercolors again hanging on the walls, her limbs once again wrapped around him in bed (no more sleeping solo on the couch). And the thatch of hair sitting proudly back on top of his head. He crossed the street and entered the shop. 

The barbershop was empty of customers, as if the barber had been waiting just for him. Ted felt a flutter of nerves in his stomach; he made his way slowly, tentatively, toward the barber’s chair. He couldn’t endure—again—what he had gone through the last time. 

The barber picked up a shaver, selected the correct-sized head, and then turned it on and off a couple of times, trying it out. Sadistically? 

Ted knew shaving the sides and back would make the top look even higher—as long as the top actually stayed on his head, that is. Before his ass even hit the chair, Ted said, “Just buzz the sides—don’t touch the top!” 

“You got it,” the barber said. “It almost killed me last time, cutting off that beautiful pompadour.” 

If you only knew, Ted thought. If you only knew.