Mother's Favorite

Her hands were adorned with jagged, deep blue nails, their pointed tips catching in the old man’s tangles as her phone hung limply against her shoulder and ear.

A lit cigarette drooped between her red lips, smoke swirled from the tip as she exhaled occasionally, sending plumes of smoke to curl toward the stained ceiling. 

The shop is nearly empty; a few customers are checking out, fiddling with their hair while her finished co-workers sweep their stations. Their hands grasping the scratched broom, which seems to have been at the shop longer than hers.

Their sweeping doesn't do any good, the tile floor is permanently dirtied; the grime has cemented, leaving a dull sheen on the once-gray flooring. The walls have a tacky yellow, all in hopes for the color to distract any potential customers from the actual state of the room. 

The man’s eyes are closed. They flutter every time the door jingles, the old bell whistling with the arrival, or descent of someone new. 

“Jen,” her mouth drawls at the word, her tongue flicking against the roof of her mouth as she halts her movements. Her daughter mutters over the phone, her voice too far away to be heard. 

She was only calling to check in on her. Her daughter had spent the weekend at her father’s, and that was enough for disaster. 

The old man merely chuckled, “Children.” 

His voice spoke of his age. His tone was a low croak, while his throat seemed to tighten on nothing but air.

She drew her phone to her back pocket, not minding the soap suds that followed her action. Getting her jean pockets damp, she drew her one hand to her lips, exhaling the smoke as she sighed. “I suppose.” 

The old man opened his eyes; they were bright, the blue was nearly white. He kept his stare towards her, his mouth twisting in a small smile before his eyes straightened to the wall ahead. “You remind me of my own mom,” he said. 

He was old enough to be her father, and here she stood, hands covered in water and soap, washing his matted hair, all while being compared to a woman who probably died before she was even born. 

“And why is that?” Her voice was light, keeping the tone she reserved solely for the older customers. Those of which sanities appeared to be slipping from their fingers day by day. 

“She used to wash my hair like this,” his eyes seemed to transcend someplace, somewhere she could never follow.

No matter how hard she pleaded or tried.

He was stuck in his memories.

“I was young,” his voice could hardly be heard over the fan in the corner of the room, shuddering with each swish of its blade. 

The door opened, sending with it a wave of heat. She felt sweat bead at her temple, as her floral shirt’s armpit and back was being slicked to her torso by her sweat. The moisture sticky against her warm skin.  

“I had a brother, you know.” 

And she didn’t. 

“He was my father’s favorite, he brought him hunting and into town. I was my mother’s favorite; she taught me things that, at the time, I was too fearful of appreciating.” His voice had lowered even further; it was nothing more than a whisper, “We had this basin outside my house. I kept my hair long then; I suppose to fight against some unspoken restraints my father pushed against me. 

“But, I had trouble keeping it clean. So, on the days my father would take my brother to town. My mom would bring me to the back, and claw at my hair. I mean, she would just scratch my skull raw.” He smiled; his teeth were yellowed and stained, yet kind, “Oh man, when my dad cut off my hair.” He shook his head slightly, “You know what’s so funny about living up in the mountains?” 

She didn't, she only lived in the city her entire life, “What’s so funny?” 

“They never really explain how uncaring nature is.” 

She felt like his words transferred to her to that mountain. As if she, herself, could witness standing in the middle of a storming forest. The trees battered against each other, branches snapping, falling at such heights that their collision with the ground caused a louder impact than the thunder rolling near. 

She saw a young boy. His hair was short; the strands near his nape curled around his neck, as water dripped off his forehead.

Slipping over his feet, his shirt was suctioned to his skin by the plummeting rain, each step he took was halted by the rapid mud encasing his feet. 

His mouth was open, he was screaming, but his voice was unheard. A hand came to yank at his head. The force of his hand clenching around his hair caused his head to wrench towards the side.

He clearly hadn't expected his strength; he tumbled with it. His hands smacked the ground, mud smothered his face at the action. Tears fell from his inhuman eyes, mixing with the rain until it was impossible to differentiate. 

A woman, she was thin in appearance, ran towards him. Her hair was plastered to her forehead.

Her scream was louder than the thunder, louder than the entirety of nature. Her face was purple with the force.

She ran towards the boy, slipping over the mud just as he had. 

When she got to him, her arms drew up to an embrace before she withdrew. A hand poised above the kid before she slapped. The storm absorbed the sound of her palm meeting his cheek.

“You idiotic child!” Her voice was a loud wail; desperation clung to her words. “How dare you run off in a storm!” 

“He cut my hair.” Was the boy’s only response. His words were sharp and bitter, obvious with detest.  

“Yes and? Can you not grow it back?” 

She was drawn back to the shop from him clearing his throat; the noise was sudden. She jumped, as she stared down at her client.

“My anger was nothing compared to the mountains own. We were walking down, and a branch broke.” He drew up his hand, causing the dark barber cape to ride up on his torso. His middle finger and thumb drew together, causing a loud snap to echo around them. 

Her hands stopped moving in his hair, hovering just above him. 

“She died, just as quickly as she lived. I was an angry child after that, I blamed my dad, though I suppose it was my own guilt that caused the feeling to be shoved upon my father. It’s hard to deal with something that is against your conscience. I think that me getting mad over something as small as cut hair was nature’s way of putting me in my place. I thought I was bigger than earth itself, and that is the most foolish idea anyone can think.” 

She hummed, resuming shampooing him, “Are you still angry?” 

He laughed, “Once you pass a threshold of anger, you realize that it will never go away. It’s always there. But the once rage is suddenly outweighed by grief, which comes crashing along randomly.

"I was twenty when I broke down in tears about my mom’s death, almost ten years after she died. And that’s when the anger became subdued. Never gone. But less."