The Barber’s Pole

Oscar sits in his barber’s chair, reading the Trentonian on his iPhone, cataloging the day's stories for the early rush. Oscar pays special attention to the stock charts and the upcoming highway projects. People love to talk about making money—and to complain about traffic.

The bell rings and Michael walks in. He is a tall, well put together, trader type in his early thirties, wearing a crisp white button-down and expensive men’s Oxford shoes. Oscar yells, “Maria, Maria. Customer. Get in here—I need a wash.” 

Oscar packs the espresso filter basket with Stumptown “Hair Bender” espresso grinds and tamps down the shot of brown powder. He purges the group head with a quick shot of steam then locks the filter into the espresso machine and starts brewing. The dark black espresso drips like droplets of dark black blood. Dripp-drr-ip-drip. Then the platelets of the steamy brew ruffle out the lighter oils and gasses, lathering them into a milky brown crema in the top of the white espresso cup—it looks like coagulating blood congealing around the white skin of a fresh wound. The association with blood unsettles Oscar. The thought of fresh red blood, thick and full like pomegranate juice. The irresistible impulse to cut. His mind stirs with perverse thoughts that he cannot silence. Even though it is before 9:00 a.m., Oscar pours two shots of minty Sambuca Romana alongside the espressos. Something to take the edge off.

“Hair of the dog that bit ‘ya,” Oscar says—thinking of bite marks on an arm and the serrated cuts of the canine teeth drawing out syrupy red nectar—“Here sit down and let’s get you a wash.” Oscar ushers Michael over to Maria’s washing station and down into the sliding chair that leans back over the sink and pushes his head back over the neck rest. Oscar takes his shot and feels a gnawing in his stomach at the thought of blood. An unfathomable craving to drain life from the veins.

Maria has inky black hair still wet from her own morning shower. The fresh earthy shampoo scents of lavender and mint waft off of her. She also has a hint of a touch of perfume, maybe a Chanel, tantalizing with a musky base and notes of fresh dense jasmine and the acidic afterbite of citrus. She is college-age, but too young to drink legally. Fresh and pure with clean blue eyes and smooth skin. She speaks in a singsong way, softly, like a hushed breath. Here, close your eyes… here, is it too warm… now, relax your shoulders… almost done.

Oscar is making a trade on his dual trading screens in the corner to distract himself from his blood lust, while he waits for Michael’s wash to be finished. Maria places Michael’s head back under the mobile shower head, pours water over his forehead, and smooths the baby fine threads of silky blonde hair back with her soft hands and delicate, ringed fingers. Michael feels the warmth of her palm and the cold of her rings under the rushing water. Maria applies the shampoo and works it through his blonde straight hair, massaging his forehead and pulling the lather and water back all the way down past his ears to his neck. Then she sits him up and begins toweling him off.

“Ready,” Oscar says. He hands Michael his shot of liqueur, which he abruptly drinks, and then sits down in Oscar’s chair and dons the barber’s apron. “What’ll it be? The usual?”

As Michael nods, Oscar methodically cleans his Wahl Pro Series Clippers. He uses a brush to clear the blades and carriage. Then sprays some sanitizing disinfectant—twice, facing up; once, facing down. He applies three or four drops of oil to the toe and heel of the blade. He runs the clipper then wipes them down and begins methodically fading the hair with different length settings to accomplish a clean skin fade.

As Oscar cuts and the two men talk, Oscar notices a small skin lesion. A brown mark by the ear lobe. It glistens in the fluorescent overhead lighting.

“It’s been rough,” Michael says.

“Hey, what do you think of this P&G Stock?” Oscar asks.

“I’m depressed Oscar. I feel useless. I don’t make any good decisions these days—I don’t think you should take my advice on anything.”

The smell of Barbasol is stirred up and invades the nose—a smell of oakmoss, coumarin and clove—intrusive as old eggs.

She left him a note, “Dinner is on the table—I was tired,” Oscar explains, trying to let Michael know that while it sucks to be out of work, it is a good time to reflect. After all, it is sometimes work that gets in the way of relationships. There is nothing like your own flesh and blood to drive you to madness.

Now it is time for the shave with the straight razor. Oscar reaches over his shoulders and unbuttons the top two buttons. He then takes a paper towel and places it over the back collar of the shirt. Oscar unbuttons the cape and drapes it loosely over the shoulders. He pulls out a fresh linen towel and lays it over Michael’s right shoulder. He then grabs a hot towel from the towel warmer with a set of tongs and pats it on the chin, mouth, upper lip, and cheeks. While Michael leans his head back and enjoys the steam of the towel, laid now over his forehead and eyes, Oscar uses a small brush to foam the hot lather in a cup.

“You have a little growth I haven’t seen before,” Oscar says.

“Oh yeah,” Michael says.

“Here—take a look,” Oscar says, showing him the mirror and where the little brown bump peaks out from the mounds of shaving foam.

“Huh, guess I do,” Michael says.

“After your shave, you want me to lance it off?” Oscar asks, hopefully.

“Yeah, guess so,” Michael says reflexively.

Oscar licks his lips, purses them, nods his head up and down, and feels the adrenaline of the thought of blood rise to his forehead—what a rush!

Oscar takes the straight razor off the shelf. He takes a fresh blade from the paper wrapping and places it in the stabilizers by the shoulder of the blade. Oscar applies the hot lather and begins pulling the blade along the skin. The sound is close to Michael’s ears and sounds like paper ripping or like the sound of a rake on the sand. He keeps his eyes closed as Oscar finishes the shave. All the while, Oscar’s heart is beating quickly, and his eyes are dilated and buggy in the mirror. A droplet of sweat forms on his brow. Just a small nick in the right spot. No, no. He mustn’t think of it. He already has his treat.

“You ready,” Oscar says.

“No time like the present,” Michael tells him.

Then Oscar applies pressure, and the blade slips into the skin. Just below the imperfection. The slightest circular wince and a pull back out from the cut. As Oscar withdraws the blade and the lesion in one stroke, fresh, syrupy blood pools. 

The drip of blood. The whooshing sound of the blood flowing through the veins. The gurgle of coagulating blood, clotting, and sealing the wound. Oscar feels giddy. There are goosebumps on the back of his neck and he feels a jolt of adrenaline throughout his whole body.

Oscar takes a styptic pencil to bind the wound. The saliva pools on the back of his tongue looking at the juicy red drops. In a moment the wound is treated, and all is well.

“See you in two weeks,” Oscar says. Michael hands him a tip, pats his shoulder, and heads out into the bright midday sun.

* * *

All afternoon, Oscar paces back and forth, turning the chair over with customer after customer. But the call of the blood is like a voice in his head. The dark impulses well up from an unknown source. Try as he might, Oscar can’t put it out of his mind.

Oscar knows that in medieval times the Barber’s Pole was a sign of the blood-letting that old-time “barber surgeons” would perform in their shops. The poles are blue for the veins revealed under a tourniquet and red for the flowing blood.

It was thought that draining one’s blood into a metal dish would extract bad humors that caused disease. Barbers also performed amputations, pulled, and cleaned teeth, set bones, and even delivered babies.

But Oscar could not get the thought of blood out of his head. E.B. had gone down to Two Brothers Pizza and brought back an Italian Sub that smelled like wet feet and oil. As he ate it in giant bites, Oscar thought of the gush of blood a bite into human flesh would make.

Maria skipped over and plopped down in Oscar’s chair.

“You want me to scrape clean all the baby hairs on the back of your neck,” Oscar asks Maria.

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” she whispers.

Oscar gets his blade ready and pulls up Maria’s hair into a high bun, carefully making sure to get all of it held up in the air.

Oscar applies the hot foam lather. He begins scraping clean the neckline. But he can see and feel the arteries and veins drawing up her neck. The sound of the blood vessels. The blue rivers running just below the surface. The smell of her Chanel perfume. The moist, young, supple skin. Oscar cannot resist the perverse longing for blood. He is disgusted with himself. Ashamed. But the cut is everything.

“Almost done,” Oscar says, tensing the blade in his hand and looking for his mark.

“Thank you so much,” Maria says. But Oscar chooses his spot and dips the blade into the willowy flesh. A gush of blood spirts. A gusher! It spurts in a few plops, like a garden hose with your thumb over the nozzle. Then drips down onto the rim of her white crew neck shirt. Pooling out into the linen fibers.

“Oww,” she yells, “Did you cut me?”

“Just a little nick, that’s all,” Oscar says. But his heart is racing, and his hands are shaking from the excitement.

He tends to her wound quickly, efficiently, and professionally—with great care.

But Maria is not having it.

“I’m outta here pops, until I get this looked at—thanks a lot—thanks for nothing,” Maria says as she stomps out. But she will be back.

Oscar smiles and pours himself some Sambuca Romana.

“E.B.,” he says, “Isn’t it just the darndest thing how satisfying it is to make a clean cut?”

The fat apprentice barber looks up in shock, red onion and ham hanging out of his mouth, and attempts a smile—totally at a loss for what his boss is talking about.

* * *

Oscar searches online for a proper bleeding bowl. Obviously, there is no such thing on Amazon. So, Oscar chooses an elegant stainless steel reserve bowl. At $43 it is a luxury purchase. 

Next Oscar has to get his hands on a Fleam. This is the best way to do bloodletting. It is clean and precise and quick. Unless you tap the blade too hard and sever an artery. One would be surprised how fast a femoral artery bleeds out.

Oscar purchases some tourniquets and various medical supplies.

What will someone think if they find out what he is up to?

* * *

A few days have passed, and Oscar’s order has arrived. And this is Oscar’s chance.

Marjorie sits in Oscar’s chair. She is in her seventies. A large black woman who wears gorgeous dresses and maintains the vanity of a much younger woman. She has great, dyed black hair that falls in waves.

The fat of her lips and jowls is all in the right places to make for an inviting face that warms and endears. 

“Found a spot on my liver. Maybe that is what is giving me all these liver spots and spider veins,” she says.

“Maybe,” Oscar says with a knowing grin.

“What’s that look for?” she asks.

“Nothing. It’s just that they used to have a way to purify the liver, back a long, long time ago in medieval times.”

“Purify the liver. Oh, yes please. I could use some of that,” Marjorie says.

“It’s a little—gothic—if you know what I mean—it involves a cut in the arm and draining your blood,” Oscar says as matter-of-factly as he can.

“Are you missing a screw,” she says.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested, it’s only for people who are really serious about maintaining a youthful look,” Oscar says.

“Evil humors. Heavens to Betsy. What will they think of next?” she asks.

“Like I said, not for you—I already knew when I brought it up—but I have had some who’ve had miraculous results,” Oscar said.

“Now… these results… it can clear up the skin?” she asks.

“You would never believe me if I told you. Takes off ten years,” Oscar says.

“More than that if you cut too deep, I’d imagine,” Marjorie says.

“Well we are all finished with your cut, so if there’s nothing—”

“—I’ll do it,” Marjorie says.

“What, really?” Oscar asks.

“Of course—ten years—I have to see for myself,” Marjorie says.

* * *

Oscar fastens the tourniquet below her bicep. The veins under her black skin come forward—deep blue rivers. 

Oscar begins to sweat, and his hands grow damp.

“One second,” he yells rushing to the back room for his bleeding bowl and Fleam. In seconds, he emerges with the utensils.

Marjorie is singing, “dit-da-dum-did-da-dum… Are you washed in the blood?... In the soul cleansing blood of the Lamb?...Are your garments spotless, are they white as snow?... Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?”

As she hums and sings, Oscar sharpens the blade of the Fleam. He places the bleeding bowl on the floor below her left arm.

“Are you ready Marjorie?” Oscar asks in hushed tones, “Are you ready?”

“Let’s get it over with already,” she says.

Oscar places the Fleam and its triangular blade just over the blood vessel on her left arm.

“It will just sting a bit,” Oscar says, swinging his fist and digging the Fleam deep into her arm.

“Oh dear,” Marjorie says, “I already feel a bit lightheaded.” Oscar sees the trickle of blood run down the arm, to the fingers, and the dripp-drrip-driip-drip into the bowl.

He grabs her bicep with pumping squeezes and says, “More like this Marge. This is better.”

“Stop Oscar, you are hurting me,” Marjorie says.

“Just a little more and it’ll run good,” Oscar says with far away eyes, glazed over in a helical madness.

“I’m losing too much blood,” Marjoire cries. “I’m going to bleed out!”

But Oscar cleans the wound with alcohol, does a quick butterfly stitch to seal the vein and the wound, and makes quick work with the bandages.

Marjorie is ghastly pale. She gets up. She is trembling. She drops some money on the floor and turns and walks out in a trance.

I won’t be seeing her again, Oscar thinks, as the little bell sounds, and she leaves.

In the back of the shop with the blood bowl in hand, engorged in endorphins, Oscar observes the blood, sniffs it, puts in a finger, swirls it around, and indulges in a little taste. It tastes like steak. It tastes great!

* * *

E.B. comes back from running errands and storms right up to Oscar when he walks in.

“Boss, I got a call from Marjorie Jones on my way back over,” E.B. says.

“Did you get the Inspection Stickers,” Oscar says, referring to a little side business they have selling fake inspection stickers that are supposedly from the DMV.

“Boss! That woman nearly died,” E.B. says.

“She was having skin problems, E.B. She was looking old. She proceeded at her own risk,” Oscar says.

“Oh yeah? You have a lawyer sort that one out,” E.B. asks.

“It’s nothing out of the ordinary,” Oscar says, “Barbers have been doing it for hundreds of years.”

“If you ever do anything like this again, I’m done—that’s it,” E.B. says.

“The blood. It is the most extraordinary thing. Dark and also light. Substantial. But also fluid.”

“Are you losing it Oscar, are you literally going crazy?” E.B. asks.

“You know the feeling when you give someone a perfect cut?” Oscar asks, and continues, “It is the same feeling. Exactly the same.”

“Whatever Boss,” E.B. says, sitting down and stress eating his second hoagie of the day.

Oscar walks back into the back of the shop and sees the old hand drawn sign in the corner, Oscar’s Unisex Cuts, 8-to-8, M-S.

Oscar goes into the refrigerator and stirs his fingers in the blood. 

Then puts his whole palm in. 

Then he takes a fresh, hot towel and submerges it in the bloody liquid.

He pulls it out and finds the white barber’s pole that he bought from the specialty shop. 

He wraps the towel helically around the poll. 

It is a helical swirl of red and white, the red splatter of real blood.

He puts the plastic covering over it.

Walking past E.B. eating his sub, Oscar goes outside and stands by the storefront. 

He takes a hammer and starts installing his new Barber’s Pole. 

He stands back, hands on hips, admiring his work.

His eyes are bloodshot from the adrenaline.

And his lips are red from the blood.