The Barber

We eat lunch at Hong Kong Harbor. The dining room is a big, dark square packed with tables and lined with ancient booths.

The Chinese Man seats us, spins two menus onto the table with a flick of his hand, and asks, “Tea?”

We nod.

“Tea,” he says, laughing a little. “Tea,” he repeats, walking back to the kitchen.

I am elbow-deep in garlic chicken when The Barber walks in.

He is not My Barber Now. My Barber Now is Justin, a handsome, straight, petite Puerto Rican who has spent less time in Puerto Rico than I have. Each time I go for an appointment, Justin has a different haircut or a different beard. Two months ago, he looked Turkish. Last month, he looked like a 1920’s film star. This month, he’s a clean-cut twelve-year-old.

His touch is light, like a mosquito, and I tend to fall asleep in his chair.

The Barber was my barber some time ago. He has a thick head of hair, a greying beard, a good body with a bit of a paunch. He has large, strong hands. He shampoos you whether you want it or not, and he moves your head around like he owns it.

When clipping and trimming, he stands a little too close, pressing up against you. When he has his hands in your hair, whipping your head around and standing too close, he has a look in his eye. He’s having impure thoughts. You know it.

He moved away ages ago. Now, he walks into Hong Kong Harbor like he owns the place, sits in the booth behind ours, and orders: “Just soup.”

“Soup!” The Chinese Man exclaims. He walks back to the kitchen. “Soup!”

I lean toward Clyde. I lower my voice. “It’s The Barber,” I hiss.

Clyde chews a limp hunk of steamed broccoli. “Which barber?”

We finish our meal. I debate speaking to The Barber.

The Barber has cut my hair three or four dozen times. Once, at the end of a session, he held up a mirror so I could admire his handiwork. My head was tilted in a way he didn’t like, and The Barber used a big, warm hand to pivot my skull to the left: Here. Now look.

Clyde gets up. I expect The Barber’s eyes to be drawn by the motion. They aren’t. He slurps soup. He stares down.

I get up slowly. I linger a bit.

The Barber looks up at me. He blinks. He goes back to his soup.

I pay at the counter. Cashier Man is talking to Chinese Man. “Cannot put it there,” Cashier Man says. “Call Charlie.”

Chinese Man gives Cashier Man a curt nod. “Charlie!” He marches off.

Clyde and I walk out.

To The Barber, I am no one special.

I am just another head.