Carl's Cuts

“quack, quack, quack, quack….” 

Carl groaned and turned over, rubbing his eyes. He touched the snooze button on his phone. 5:30, he didn’t have much of a commute. The barber shop was just downstairs, but he wanted to be ready for the day. He got up slowly, steadying his feet on the floor. He walked over to the window, and moved the curtains aside, no sun today, only grey rain drops on the glass. He felt a soft, light touch on his calf. Looking down, there was Phoenix, the calico that had shown up on his doorstep over a year ago. 

Carl remembered just how pathetic Phoenix had looked that day. He was missing half an ear, most likely from alley cat fights. His fur was matted and brown, no sign of the beautiful tricolor cat that was before him now. He had named him Phoenix, because like the mythical legend, this cat had risen from the ashes of the alleys, and had become a beautiful, loving creature.

“Ok, I know its breakfast time,” Carl yawned.

Carl walked into the small kitchenette, he began cracking eggs into a bowl. Mixing them with a fork, and carefully adding paprika, he poured them into the hot cast-iron pan on the stove. When they were done, he scooped them into two bowls and set them at his small, wooden table. 

“All ready,” He said.

Phoenix sniffed approvingly, and hopped up onto the table. They both began eating their eggs together. 

When they were finished, Carl got up, placing both bowls into the sink. He glanced at the clock on the wall, 6:15, the time was going quickly. 

He showered, dressed, and then he walked to the small mannequin head where his hair piece was resting. He carefully picked it up, and placed it onto his head, standing in front of his full length mirror. He stared into the mirror, and made sure it was properly placed. The bangs had to be perfect, so no one would notice that the barber, didn’t have real hair. It was business in the front and party in the back, a classic. This hairstyle was known by many names, The Kentucky Waterfall, The Beaver Paddle, The Camaro Cut, The Ape Drape, and sometimes the Tennessee Top Hat, but it was most infamously known as The Mullet. Carl knew it wasn’t everyone’s favorite, but he just couldn’t face the world without it. In his mind, one of the worst possible fates would be a barber without the ability to grow his own hair. Ever since the gel incident, that had been the case. 

1987 was the year of misfortune. At 10 years old, he had faithfully begun using SuperGelz products on his curly brown locks. Which his mother always said were his best feature. But that year changed everything. He noticed small things at first, thinning, the curl lessening in tightness. Then one morning as he was applying SuperGelz, a handful of hair fell out, into the sink. He immediately panicked and went to his physician. That is when he was told it was a grave, yet rare, allergic reaction, caused by many years of gel use. He would never have his curly locks again. The common person may not necessarily understand why this was such an ordeal for him. After all, it was not life threatening, but being a barber meant everything to him, and his hair, his Kentucky Waterfall, was his identity.

Carl sighed as he turned from the mirror, only to see Phoenix looking up at him critically. 

“I know, you don’t approve,” Carl chuckled. 

Even though the small cat obviously couldn’t speak, his eyes told him everything, Carl knew without a doubt, that the cat hated his hair. Carl grabbed his apron, and descended the stairs to his second home, the barber shop.

Carl thoroughly enjoyed his morning routine. It was a form of meditation before the day actually began. He would methodically arrange his tools. He placed his scissors, razors, hand mirror, and shave brush in each of their places on the counter. He  pulled the apron over his head and carefully tied it in the back. Then he glanced in the mirror to double check his hair placement. Finally, he walked to the storefront window, where the “Carls Cuts” sign was dark, and he flipped the on switch. A warm, welcoming, electronic hum began, as the sign flickered and then grew bright. He was ready.

He walked over to the desk, and began a little bookkeeping before anyone arrived. A short time later, the familiar jingle of the front door bell rang as it opened. Carl looked up, but knew who the customer was before he even saw him.

A tall, broad shouldered, gentleman entered the shop. Although he was in his 80’s, he gave the impression of someone much younger. Not by appearance, but by his presence. 

“Arthur!” Carl exclaimed. “Coffee is ready for you!”

Arthur had been coming to the shop ever since his wife died. He lived just down the street above the corner grocery.

Although he didn’t really need a haircut and a shave, he came twice a week for a trim, and a chat.

“Perfect, you sure do know me! I was too busy fiddling around with my garbage disposal this morning to make some,” Arthur replied, distractedly scratching his head. 

Carl grabbed one of his mugs. This particular mug had the ‘Keep on Truckin’ slogan on it. He had picked it up in Florida on one of his road trips during his “hair” days. He had the habit of dividing his life into two different eras, one had hair, and one didn’t. 

He poured the coffee for Arthur and handed it to him. Arthur had taken a seat in his usual chair. It was a ritual they both enjoyed. Sometimes they would talk about the neighborhood or the weather, and sometimes they would just sit quietly for a while. Carl and Arthur were friends but part of that friendship was not knowing everything about each other. It was a comfort to them both. This was one of the quiet days. 

Carl meticulously prepared his straight razor, shaving cream and hot towels. He gave Arthur his traditional shave, almost like an artist preparing their canvas, and putting the brush to it. 

When he was done, Arthur checked himself in the mirror. 

He smiled, “This should catch the ladies,” He joked. “Its hard to improve something that is already close to perfection, but you always manage to do it Carl!”

Carl laughed, “Why do you think I never take you along to be the wingman, Arthur?”

Arthur stood up, with a big smile on his face, and in that moment with the soft light of the Carls Cuts sign on his cheeks, he did appear to be young. This is why Carl loved the barber shop. His people, his place, they were here, and this is why he felt he could never take off his hair. He would be seen differently, and everything would change.

Arthur left, and other customers trickled in. Carl knew many of them, and met some new ones as well. His shop was in a part of town that was in the middle of everything. Carl saw at least one of everyone. 

As the day drew to a close, and Carl was just about to begin cleaning up for the day, the tiny bells on the door rang again. Carl looked up and saw a man and his son. The boy looked to be about 12. He had shaggy, brown hair that touched his shoulders, the father was in his late 40’s and had a perfectly bald head. So bald, in fact, that it shown in the reflective street lights. 

“Do you have time for us?” The man inquired. “Well, obviously not both of us.” 

He jokingly rubbed the top of his head.

“Of course,” Carl smiled. “take a seat.” Gesturing to the barber chair nearest to him.

The boy smiled bashfully, and quietly sat down. 

“What are we doing today?” Carl queried.

The boy looked expectantly in the direction of his Dad. 

“On our way here, we just talked about getting a small trim.” His dad said, answering for him.

“Actually, now that I’m here, I think I want something a little different,” The boy said speaking up.

“Well, first, lets start with introductions. Before we get down to real business, why don’t we?” Carl replied.

“I’m Benjamin, and this is my son, Alex,” Benjamin said.

“And I’m Carl of course, just like the sign says.” Carl smiled in the mirror at Alex.

“Now, that’s done. What are you thinking for your new style?” 

Carl gently placed the neck strip and draping around Alex. 

“Actually, I really want a haircut just like yours…” Alex replied with his eyes facing downward.

“A good old fashioned Mississippi Mudflap for you, eh?” Carl laughed, glancing at Benjamin who was sitting in the chair next to Alex. 

Benjamin raised his eyebrows, and said “Go for it Alex! If I had hair like you two, I would have one as well!”

At this Carl turned red….he knew it was a lie. His hair was a fraud. He was a phony. He had always prided himself on living an honest life, but how could he have this life, and this hair at the same time?

“We're just too different, I guess, or at least our hair is,” Benjamin snickered. His face lit up, and the lines around his eyes crinkled, just enough for Carl to feel jealous. 

Carl realized he felt jealous of Benjamins’ confidence, of his nonchalant demeanor. He had nothing to hide, his vulnerability was right there for the world to see, and he couldn’t care less.

In that moment Carl made a decision. 

“Let’s do it, you have the perfect face for a Tennessee Top hat.”

Carl relaxed, and got to work.

A little while later, Carl turned the chair to face the mirror, and Alex took his first look. 

Alex stared, slightly turning his head to the right and then to the left. Carl and Benjamin both held their breath.

“I love it, It’s like I’m a whole new person!” He exclaimed.

“I agree, It really suits you, Alex,” Benjamin said enthusiastically.

Benjamin and Alex both stood up. Benjamin reached for his wallet. 

Carl put his hand up.

“It’s on the house,” He said quietly. 

He felt humbled, and a happiness he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Are you sure?” Benjamin asked.

“Most definitely,” Carl replied. 

Benjamin and Alex thanked Carl profusely, made promises to return, and to refer all of their friends. Finally, the bells on the door chimed one last time for the day. Carl locked up, turned off the glowing sign, and swept the floor.

He made his way up the stairs, where Phoenix was waiting for him. 

“Hey boy,” Carl patted the small cats’ head. 

Phoenix rubbed against his leg, and then seemingly, glanced up at his hair. 

“I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right.” 

Carl walked to the mannequin head, picked it up, took off his hair and put them together in a box. He then ran his fingers over his scalp. His skin was soft, he felt the cool, fresh air coming through an open window in his apartment. Freedom was his. His identity was never in his hair, he was more than that. Phoenix had always known it. Just like his little cat, he would rise above the ashes. He was a whole new person.

“Ready for dinner?” He asked, looking down at Phoenix, who began purring at his feet.