O4M sweeps the fallen hair into a small pile. He pauses, looks at the middle chair, then at the mirror.
You’re holding your helmet like it’s a bomb. And you sat in the middle chair. First-timers always sit in the middle. They think it’s neutral. It’s not. The middle chair is for men who can’t decide what they want.
He sets the shears down. Picks up the clippers. The hum fills the small shop like a prayer.
That’s the part you hold onto.
It is not a question. Ezra’s jaw tightens.
It’s not stupid. It’s grief. Grief is just stupidity with better lighting.
He hated long hair. Used to say I looked like a “lost dog.”
I believe a good haircut is three things. One: it listens to the head, not the trend. Two: it leaves enough to hold onto. Three: it lets a man look in the mirror and recognize himself again.
I’ll leave the middle chair warm.
Ezra reaches up, touches the back of his neck.
Ezra hesitates, then takes the middle chair. He does not spin it or adjust it. He sits like a man sitting in a waiting room.
Ezra sets the mirror down. Picks up his helmet. This time, he holds it like a helmet, not a bomb.
Same time next month?
That sounds stupid when you say it out loud.
He makes the first cut. A small lock of hair falls onto the apron. Ezra flinches, but only slightly.