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David's Haircut
Ken Elkes
When David steps out of the front door he is blinded for a moment by the
white, fizzing sunlight and reaches instinctively for his dad's hand.
It's the first really warm day of the year, an unexpected heat that bridges
the cusp between spring and summer. Father and son are on their way to the
barbershop, something they have always done together.
Always, the routine is the same. "It's about time we got that mop of yours
cut," David's dad will say, pointing at him with two fingers, a cigarette wedged
between them. "Perhaps I should do it. Where are those shears Janet?"
Sometimes his dad chases him round the living room, pretending to cut off
his ears. When he was young David used to get too excited and start crying,
scared that maybe he really would lose his ears, but he has long since grown out
of that.
Mr Samuels' barbershop is in a long room above the chip shop, reached by a
steep flight of stairs. There is a groove worn in each step by the men who climb
and descend in a regular stream. David follows his father, annoyed that he
cannot make each step creak like his old man can.
David loves the barbershop - it's like nowhere else he goes. It smells of
cigarettes and men and hair oil. Sometimes the smell of chips will climb the
stairs along with a customer and when the door opens the waiting men lift their
noses together.
Black and white photographs of men with various out-of-fashion hairstyles
hang above a picture rail at the end of the room, where two barber's chairs are
bolted to the floor. They are heavy, old-fashioned chairs with foot pumps that
hiss and chatter as Mr Samuels, the rolls of his plump neck squashing slightly,
adjusts the height of the seat.
In front of the chairs are deep sinks with a showerhead and long metal hose
attached to the taps, not that anyone seems to use them. Behind the sinks are
mirrors and on either side of these, shelves overflowing with an mixture of
plastic combs (some plunged into a glass bowl containing a blue liquid), shaving
mugs, scissors, cut throat razors, hair brushes and, stacked neatly in a
pyramid, 10 bright red tubs of Brylcreem.
At the back of the room sit the customers, silent for most of the time,
except when Mr Samuels breaks off from cutting and takes a drag on his
cigarette, sending a wisp of grey-blue smoke like the tail of kite twisting into
the air.
When it is David's turn for a cut, Mr Samuels places a wooden board covered
with a piece of oxblood red leather across the arms of the chair, so that the
barber doesn't have to stoop to cut the boy's hair. David scrambles up onto the
bench.
"The rate you're shooting up, you won't need this soon, you'll be sat in
the chair," the barber says.
"Wow," says David, squirming round to look at his dad, forgetting that he
can see him through the mirror. "Dad, Mr Samuels said I could be sitting in the
chair soon, not just on the board!"
"So I hear," his father replies, not looking up from the paper. "I expect
Mr Samuels will start charging me more for your hair then."
"At least double the price," said Mr Samuels, winking at David.
Finally David's dad looks up from his newspaper and glances into the
mirror, seeing his son looking back at him. He smiles.
"Wasn't so long ago when I had to lift you onto that board because you
couldn't climb up there yourself," he says.
"They don't stay young for long do they, kids," Mr Samuels declares. All
the men in the shop nod in agreement. David nods too.
In the mirror he sees a little head sticking out of a long nylon cape that
Mr Samuels has swirled around him and folded into his collar with a wedge of
cotton wool. Occasionally he steals glances at the barber as he works. He smells
a mixture of stale sweat and aftershave as the barber's moves around him,
combing and snipping, combing and snipping.
David feels like he is in another world, noiseless except for the scuffing
of the barber's shoes on the lino and the snap of his scissors. In the
reflection from the window he could see through the window, a few small clouds
moved slowly through the frame, moving to the sound of the scissors' click.
Sleepily, his eyes dropping to the front of the cape where his hair falls
with the same softness as snow and he imagines sitting in the chair just like
the men and older boys, the special bench left leaning against the wall in the
corner.
He thinks about the picture book of bible stories his aunt gave him for
Christmas, the one of Samson having his hair cut by Delilah. David wonders if
his strength will go like Samson's.
When Mr Samuels has finished, David hops down from the seat, rubbing the
itchy hair from his face. Looking down he sees his own thick, blonde hair
scattered among the browns, greys and blacks of the men who have sat in the
chair before him. For a moment he wants to reach down and gather up the broken
blonde locks, to separate them from the others, but he does not have time.
The sun is still strong when they reach the pavement outside the shop, but
it is less fiery now, already beginning to drop from its zenith.
"I tell you what, lad, let's get some fish and chips to take home, save
your mum from cooking tea," says David's dad and turns up the street.
The youngster is excited and grabs his dad's hand. The thick-skinned
fingers close gently around his and David is surprised to find, warming in his
father's palm, a lock of his own hair. |
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发表于 2016-7-10 11:23:35