Chapter 3
-Short Story by Clayton Booysen
Despite the few joyful moments of sincere human connection that Franco got from his work, the next few weeks hardly held the same delight. A cloud of heaviness started hanging over Franco as he slowly realized he couldn’t make the month’s rent, by any stretch. It was in these moments that he fought hardest to remember the reason behind the wager, his reason why.
Regardless, he decided to soldier on to the next month, making the best of what he had done for himself.
After multiple meaningless hours of cutting and snipping the fringes of soulless business executives, he decided there to be at least one redeeming interaction for the day.
Franco had then recognised the old, homeless man he’d seen at the palm trees on the far side of the villa a few weeks earlier. He decided to invite him in.
That man was in for a treat, he decided.
Franco slipped on his brown leather apron and rolled up his sleeves, ready to give the man the full experience: he grabbed the chair by the armrest and spun it ‘round, patting the leather back.
The old man settled into the chair. His greasy white beard ran all the way up his face to where it met clusters of grey hair, which sagged back down over his eyes, the stereotypical hobo by all accounts.
“Try this and tell me what you think,” Franco told the old man as he reached for the almost-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the shelf above them, “It’s an Irish blend infused with sweet honey, making it almost a creamy liqueur.”
The old man smiled so big it squinted his eyes and graciously accepted the icy drink.
Franco took a moment as they both stared at the customer’s reflection in the mirror.
“Right,” he began, weaving his fingers though the thickest of grey hair, ignoring both the oily grease it left on his fingers…and the thought of rent. “I’m thinking we take some volume off the sides and just shorten it a bit on the top.”
The man didn’t seem to understand the difference, so he nodded shyly, smiled wide and took a sip of whiskey.
After Franco sprayed his hair with a fine mist, he plugged in the clipper. “And what’s your name?” he asked.
The man cleared his throat, his voice a low rasp. “Johnathan.”
The man wasn’t very talkative, and Franco felt no need to insist, so he continued working around the man’s head, unbothered by the silence.
Franco eventually decided to tell him a bit about the barbershop, the struggles to make rent and his reasons for moving back to Pretoria. “…and that’s why I also employed my Uncle Adrian. He’s hardworking but being retrenched at his age with 3 children to raise by himself is almost impossible. So, I have him help out here as needed.”
After finishing the sides, Franco started nipping his fringe with a pair of scissors. “So, Johnathan, what’s your story?”
The man wheezed and gave a polite smile. “It’s a long story.”
Franco emptied the last splash of whiskey into the man’s glass. “Tell me…”
Initially the man spoke briefly, as if under interrogation, giving only the most appropriate answer.
But as Franco continued snipping and shaving away the clusters of hairs, the man’s head took a new shape and he slowly started to thaw. He apparently had a hard year up to this point. His daughter was immigrating to Australia, he was currently unemployed, and his wife kicked him out of the house.
After some time, Franco decided to slow his pace, giving the man time to finish his story. He remembered his words: Sometimes people just need to feel heard.
Another half-an-hour had gone by.
Now clean shaven, the old man had hair symmetrical and silver.
“Wow.” Franco softly remarked with a smile, “you look a decade younger,” and excused himself to fetch a broom.
When he came back, he found the man at the counter, sniffing the cork from the empty bottle.
When the old man saw Franco, he quickly put the cork down and stepped back.
Franco laughed, his voice soft. “It’s fine, you can keep it. The bottle’s empty anyways.”
The man stood up and dug in his torn leather wallet.
Franco laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t stress it, my friend.”
The man took the whiskey cork and thanked him for the haircut before silently waddling out the shop.
Franco thought for a moment on this.
How easily he had forgotten about his father, the money. Just being in the moment, connecting and sharing stories with strangers.
It was now that Franco slowly became aware of his feelings of growing disappointment, for moments like these were still only a taste of what he’d hoped for.
Besides, it’s not like the cut meant anything to the man. A few days and he’d probably look worse off again than before.
When he soon thereafter closed shop, he found the second notice stuck to the window, courtesy of the landlord, Mr. Angelos. He snatched it off and looked around, wondering how many people had seen it. Franco realised that he was at least a dozen customers short of making the next month’s rent.
The shop was bleeding money, and even his best efforts couldn’t staunch it. He knew what had to be done and couldn’t help but believe that Mr. Harvey had been wrong after all.
Franco bit his lip ‘till the taste of blood kissed his palate. How it pained him, rounding up the two trainees and Uncle Adrian at the front of the shop the next morning.
He breathed deeply and tried memorize the words he neatly picked out. But the thoughts of Uncle Adrian wrestled for attention in his mind, how the man would be left high-and-dry, and not for the first time. He had three daughters to take care of, in addition to the stresses of struggling with a divorced wife.
Now, Franco had to tug away the life-line he had so graciously dangled before him, how despicable. He opened his mouth but the early wind quickly filled the silence as it whistled between the group…
Screw it!
“I’m sorry,” he started, forcing a grumble through his voice as to hide the tears that stung in his throat.
It was the only way he could save the shop, he reminded himself, it was all he had left. He looked at his uncle when he spoke, but he couldn’t seem to make out his face. The words didn’t want to come. “I-I’m…sorry all of you,” he stuttered, “but I’ve got to let you go.”
***
It was now the end of the third month, and he fared no better as Franco couldn’t make rent once more.
The end was approaching, he knew it. He expected to be evicted any time now.
When Franco was about to close shop, he noticed how the sun shone a lazy orange hue through the palm trees and stone buildings of the public square.
He simply wanted to call it a day, enjoy a cold beer and figure out the next plan of action.
“Yassas,” he heard from the door.
He turned and saw a plump man stride in, wearing shorts, sandals, and a green silk button-up that covered his belly but left bare his hairy chest.
“And how can I help you, Sir?”
The plump man smiled and seated himself in one of the chairs, rubbing his legs as he eased himself into the creaking leather. “I’d like a quick shave.”
Franco sighed. “Very well.”
He took a cut-throat razor, cream brush, and porcelain bowl from one of the oak shelves. He dipped the brush and mixed the shaving foam to a thick white cream.
“So, how’s business?” the man asked.
Franco looked up from the bowl and froze.
It was Mr. Angelos, the landlord.
Was he here because of the rent?
Franco bit his lip and kept on mixing, he would not show any concern. “The customers seem to be very happy with my service.”
“Then I’m happy.”
Mr. Angelos further wiggled himself into the leather. “They’re very comfortable.”
Franco moved closer and scooped a thick whip of cream from the bowl, then smeared it over Mr. Angelos’ sandpaper-like stubble. He took the silver blade and gently scraped away the cream in methodical streaks, leaving behind smoothened, brown skin. He worked in silence, waiting for Mr. Angelos to speak up, but the man never did.
When he was done, Franco wiped the excess cream from the man’s cheek.
Mr. Angelos’ voice eventually grumbled. “That is a magnificent beard you have…”
Franco nodded as he tossed the cloth aside. “Thank you. I grew it myself.”
The landlord chuckled in a rasp voice that sounded more like he was choking. “So, tell me…what do you use to make your beard grow so long?”
Franco clenched his teeth. “The tears of my enemies…”
Mr. Angelos only grinned.
Franco left him to fetch a cotton towel, steamed with scented oils. He gently wrapped the warm fluff over the man’s face to soothe the skin and himself inhaled the warm scents of lavender and lemon. It gave him an unjustified sense of calm.
“Very nice,” Mr. Angelos noted when Franco was done, scratching under his double chin. “But I hear you give people a ‘real experience’. Was this it?”
Just come out with it!
Franco snapped his fingers. “Of course.”
He jogged to fetch a rounded glass from behind the counter. He filled it with Scotch and handed it to the man. “Enjoy.”
Mr. Angelos took his time, swirling the golden liquid, sniffing, and slowly sipping at it.
Franco felt like a schoolboy in the principal’s office, waiting in angst.
Mr. Angelos gulped the rest down. “Very nice. Oh, but where are my manners? Here I have you shave me, in my shop, after hours, and serve me some of your drinks. But don’t you also want one? After all, you must have had a busy day, many customers…”
The taunt made Franco’s neck jerk to the side with anger, but he composed himself once more and straightened his head.
He forced himself to speak slowly. “Well…booze tend to make me dizzy…” He considered for a moment as he reached for a pair of scissors, “…and I’d prefer not to snip your ear off.”
Mr. Angelos laughed, “clever man,” and handed Franco the empty glass back. Then he stood up and slapped his hands together. “Before I go, I want to show you something.” He then looked down at his bulging belly and unbuttoned half his shirt, as if it were a final insult to Franco’s business. “As you can see, all my hair grows on my chest. It’s like a carpet between my nipples.”
Franco didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t help himself.
Mr Angelos had a thick, black rug of hair that clung to his chest like a grizzly animal, desperate for life, but which should have rather been put down, for its own sake. It looked like it could come alive from his bosom at any moment and pounce.
He lifted his head to Franco. “What do you think?”
“Could have sworn it just barked at me.”
Mr Angelos lost his smile at the jab and gritted his teeth. “Yes, maybe I should have you shave that as well! Call it a recompense for three months of overdue payment.”
“Would love to…but I don’t think I have sheers strong enough for the job.”
Franco knew he shouldn’t repay his landlord with insults; it would only worsen the matter. But he had quickly realised that the end was inevitable either way. Ever since that fat Greek had waddled his lazy body into the building, the shop was doomed. He then might as well finish on a high-note, Franco decided.
“Sheers?” Mr Angelos asked. “You make me sound like a sheep!”
“Oh no,” laughed Franco. “Trust me, it would be easier to shave a sheep than to wrestle with whatever creature has fused itself to your chest!” He thought for a moment. “I could try and shave it but I’m afraid onlookers might think I’m harassing a badger…”
Mr. Angelos patted him on the shoulder before waddling out. “Tell you what…I’d let you relocate to one of my smaller shops. About a third the size, you’d make the rent.” He stood by the threshold and turned his neck back that his double chin bulged to the one side. “This place has ‘till the end of the week…”
To Be Continued…
