When Push Comes to Shove

When he was a little boy, Eric had had a neighbour who used to say, “He changes his mind more often than he changes his shirt” about someone who dithered and vacillated. Well, that certainly sprung to mind when it came to Bobby Millican, one of their regulars – and he gave new meaning to the word “regular” - at Hairs and Graces. 

     Mind you, on second thoughts perhaps it didn’t apply, as Bobby had a vert impressive collection of shirts, too, and as Eric’s colleague Louis observed, he most certainly didn’t get them from Asda. They were beautifully cut and styled. And he definitely couldn’t have paid for them from what he made at Bobby’s Baubles, the little costume jewellery shop – or Boutique, as he preferred to call it – that he owned. Though it wasn’t entirely a vanity project, it wasn’t going to keep him in posh shirts. Some of the people he rubbed up the wrong way muttered about ill-gotten gains – but in fact that was a calumny – he’d been left quite a lot of money by an uncle who’d had a soft spot for him. 

     But though he plainly wasn’t averse to spending a fair amount on his clothes, he remained loyal to Hairs and Graces on the High Street when it came to his hair, not deserting it for one of the posher and fancier ones in a neighbouring town.

     “And so he should,” Louis said. “We can give as decent a cut as anyone else and no need for all the fancy trappings!”

     Bobby plainly believed that variety was the spice of life when it came to his haircuts, and was, admittedly with justification, proud of his lustrous dark hair. There was also a very thin borderline between pride and vanity, and at times he most definitely crossed it. Still, he was a good customer and a good tipper, and though he could be irritating, he could be interesting too. And when they’d had to close the salon for a couple of days because of staff sickness, he’d been very good about it, and you couldn’t say that about everyone whose appointment was cancelled. 

     Today was what they nicknamed a “Bobby Day”. 

     “And I wonder what His Lordship will want today,” Louis said. “Can I trust him to your tender ministrations, Eric?”

     Eric nodded. They had their usual unofficial sweepstake about what he might plump for, the general consensus being that he would go for a straighter look this time, having had tousled curls for a while now (or at least, a while by Eric’s standards) but that he would leave it quite long. 

     You often hear about a room falling silent, but it rarely actually happens. It did when Bobby, after exchanging a few pleasantries with Eric, said, “I want my head shaving.”

     “Er – you’re winding me up, Bobby,” Eric said. It wouldn’t be the first time. But something about his expression suggested otherwise. And his words confirmed it. “No I’m not. Scout’s Honour.”

     “Isn’t that a tad – er – radical?”

     There were undeniably people who suited the Yul Brynner look. But Bobby, Eric (who had an instinct for such things) was pretty sure, wasn’t one of them. He was very good-looking but, well, in a way that needed hair. Indeed, though he undeniably had very nice eyes, his hair was an intrinsic part of those good looks.

     “You’re not going to persuade me otherwise, Eric, and I’m warning you, if you try, then I’ll go straight to Rollercoasters. “ It was hard to gauge Bobby’s tone of voice. There was an edge to it, but it was a bit shaky, too.

     “Listen, you’re not busy, so I might as well explain. Just – don’t go making a big thing about it.”

    Sometimes things run in families, and just as Bobby had always been very close to his Uncle Duncan – “And I know what some folk might say, but I thought the world of him, and wouldn’t have cared if he left me nothing” – he was very close to his own niece, Sarah. “She’s a great kid. Ten going on thirty and tells it how it is. Bright as twenty boxes of buttons and a sense of humour just like mine, God help her.” He went on to say that until recently Sarah hadn’t had a day’s illness in her life, but a couple of months back she’d kept getting tired and being totally “out of sorts”. Her parents took her to their GP who said it was probably nothing much to worry about, but best take a few tests to make sure.

     It was something to worry about. Something to be worried sick about. Sarah had leukaemia. 

     “Oh, Bobby, I’m so sorry,” Eric said, meaning it.

     “Well – luckily – this is one kind of cancer,” he made himself speak the word though there was a catch in his voice as he did, “that’s now – generally – curable in children. Not every case, of course, but – it was caught quite early, which is always a good thing.”

     Eric had an idea where this was heading, but let Bobby carry on, giving his arm a little pat. Sarah was having chemo. And she wasn’t immune to the classic symptom. “Her hair is – a lot like mine. One of the few things she probably is quite lucky to share with me! But – it’s coming out in clumps. She’s being an – an absolute little heroine, but she hates it. She hates wearing a wig, too, it gives her headaches as if the poor kid didn’t have enough to put up with. Now do you understand?”

     Eric understood. And he didn’t argue. Some people might call Bobby shallow, he thought, and I have done myself, and perhaps he is in some ways. Then he remembered another one of those sayings his neighbour had. If someone proved unexpectedly good in a crisis, or if they could be relied on to stand by you at the bad times, even though they could grate on you in the good ones, he said that they were a good sort of friend to have when push came to shove. Well, when push had come to shove, Bobby certainly hadn’t been found wanting.

     So Eric shaved his head, and after he had, Bobby showed him the new shirt he had purchased before coming to Hairs and Graces.

     “Got a decidedly oriental look to it, don’t you think? Might as well complete that Yul Brynner look!”

     The thing is, he wasn’t wrong!