Forever Mustache March

I have never realized before that he had a big mole by his left ear. It is a shame: I had been visiting this barber’s shop every first Monday of the month for the past 8 years and yet I had never looked at his face carefully before. Was he my friend? I would like to think so. I trust him with a sharp razor on my face. The shop smelled like sharp lavender, evoking a sense of loneliness and the barber smelled like citrus cologne that burnt your throat. The collective moisture on the walls had a haphazard paint over it. The talk radio was on; a woman with a high pitch voice is disturbingly talking. I didn’t really pay attention. I can’t stand talk radio anymore; it is nothing but a reminder of the warmth I can’t have nowadays. Nonetheless, familiarity fells safe, like a book with a happy ending. 

I came in very early this morning, before I changed my mind. I wasn’t expecting to see another early bird customer. The barber’s scissors were circling around the young man's head like a buzzing bee around an apple tree. He was probably in his mid 30s in an expensive suit. I didn’t quite understand why he was getting a haircut. Maybe because he could. His hair was already very short, he could pull off a longer hair anyway; he was young and handsome. Me, on the other hand, no sir. I am already losing some on the top like a coot. I stared at the barber’s hands. Once again I realized something new, the calluses on this hands. They were not repulsive as you would think, on the contrary, they looked like a proud pay off for some hard work. How did he get those calluses, I thought. He was as fast as a blink with those scissors –which actually concerns me a little- but would that cause callus? Maybe he has a hobby, gardening or woodworking or something else. I speculated more to myself but deep down I was ashamed that I didn’t know him as much as I thought I did. I never noticed before while he was cutting my hair or shaving my beard that how extremely steady the barber is while working. His body doesn’t move, his arms don’t move. Even his hands don’t move much. The only things in action are his fingers that flow around your head. The youngster gave himself an approving gaze on the mirror. He was a youngster after all. Everybody half of my age is… Self-reflection doesn’t hurt yet when you are that young. 

It was finally my turn; I stretched out on my usual chair uncomfortably. The damn chair wouldn’t move a bit to adjust its height. I eyeballed my mustache one last time on the mirror. I didn’t know how to break the news to the barber. “Oh, Omar… You are just looking for an excuse to bail out.” I thought. After months of struggle with myself, I woke up with courage that I will get my mustache shaved today; the mustache that I hadn’t shaved in over 30 years. 

“What do you think about the upcoming elections?” said Aziz; he was kind enough to start a small talk before getting into business. 

At least he didn’t start with the weather this time. It has been pretty nice out lately, nothing worth talking about the March weather along the Mediterranean coast. I am not going to lie; I looked forward to our chitchats. Every month it is something different. He knows I like soccer and he knows my favorite team. I am well aware that he couldn't care less about soccer itself, but pretends to do so just to entertain me. He is good people. I wonder if he treats his other customers as nicely as he does to me. Then I stopped thinking about it immediately. I stopped questioning things, exactly one year ago when I buried the love of my life, my best friend, my wife six feet under. It was another beautiful day in March just like today. Leyla and I went to bed one night together, I woke up to be alone for the rest of my life. Islam doesn’t wait for your closure after death like in those movies on TV. Dead must be buried immediately over here. I carried her from our bed to death, in less than one day. We could never had kids but I have no regrets; I took it all in what Leyla gave me. So many people go by their lives without knowing what love is; I must have been a fortunate one. We always talked, talked and talked. We always had questions for each other. "What would you think about the elections, Leyla?”. I still have more questions for her. I write them down now, not knowing her answers. I will never know anymore. I learned the hard way that you need to enjoy what is given to you, when it is given to you, no questions asked. She looked so peaceful that morning. Even though she wasn’t breathing, she was radiating an aura that I never knew a dead person could have. 

I was surprised that Aziz asked about the elections. It was the only thing on mind lately, except shaving my mustache. 

“I don’t have much hope that things are going to get better” I said. “I don’t trust the government and I don’t like the strategy the opposition party is following.” 

He nodded but it was a “I hear you but I don’t agree with you” kind of nod. I knew he didn’t approve what I was saying. Part of me wanted to start a debate with him over politics just to see how far he will go defending his ideas. But I didn’t. Not today. Today, my mustache needed to go. Leyla would have been proud of me today, if she were here. How many times she asked me to shave my mustache, be all sharp-looking but soft, just like when we first met. My heart suddenly felt heavy. No, time doesn’t heal; absence is something that is felt more heavily over time. One of worst things about losing a loved one must be not being able to share simple things with them anymore. We were so happy together; we really were. Sadly, happiness is not something you can stock up for later, not like water but just like electricity. You have it one moment, you may lose it another. My heart has been a black hole since then. Everything around me is sucked up in that hole and nothing is left for me enjoy. 

I remember the first time I walked into this barber shop after Leyla died. I only showed up out of habit, not knowing what I was really doing. I didn’t tell him anything but he knew; he must have sensed my sorrow. “Leyla?” he asked with a knot in his Adam’s apple and a shadow in his gray eyes. I didn’t have to answer; the tears rolling down my wrinkly face did. He compassionately shaved my beard and trimmed my hair in complete silence that day. Aziz must have sensed my misery again; he grabbed me behind from my shoulders and gave me a comforting genuine smile from the mirror, bringing me back to reality.

“Is it just your beard today or are we cutting your hair too?” he asked with a gentle voice. “I am actually here for my mustache today, Aziz”, I said. “I would like to get it shaved.” 

He gave me a blank stare as if he was weighing whether I was joking or not. “Do you mean trimming your mustache a little?” asking suspiciously.  

“No, I mean shaving it off completely.” 

He started busying himself with clean towels and scissors anxiously, taking his time. You’d think he was ignoring me but I knew he was only giving me more time to think about what I just said. Once he realized I was serious, he deeply sighed and said “I can’t shave your mustache, Omar”. I was taken aback with his demanding eyebrows. 

“Why not?” I asked. My voice came out louder than I intended. 

“Because your mustache became who you are over all those years. I can’t just shave it now. I can’t change who you are, it won’t be fair to you”. 

I was befuddled. “Do you mean, I should shave it myself?” 

“No! I mean, your mustache shouldn’t be shaved at all. It is part of who you are now; we can’t just cut it off. It will be like cutting your arm; it will change you.” 

That was the problem; I didn’t want change, I hate change, always have. I just wanted things to go back the way they used to be. Me and Leyla… No coffee anymore, she used to say, only ginger tea. It’s supposed to be healthier for us. Before breakfast, she would make us drink extra virgin olive oil. She would feed me an aspirin everyday and I would hand her a mouthful of vitamins. Our joints were crooked, our knees gave away most of the time but we were hanging in there. We were supposed to hold each other’s arthritic hands for many more years. I didn't care about my mustache, I just wanted Leyla back. I would do anything to get her back. If it were up to me, I would keep my mustache and my Leyla. She would complain that it scratches when I kiss her, and I would secretly enjoy her grumpiness over my mustache. Now that Leyla is gone, mustache must go. 

In an utter chaos with my feelings, I remember hearing her infectious laugh. I didn’t know how long I was sitting on the chair. The barber must have left me alone as a mess I was. When I finally came back to it, he was sweeping the floors and mumbling an old love song that I hadn’t heard in decades. Do I really need to shave my mustache to get her back? Isn’t she right there, where I look, when I think, in every breath I take? 

I said “Thank you, Aziz. I appreciate it.” He gave me a gracious look when I was leaving the shop in peace, dragging one leg after the other.