Slades haircut

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Slade's Haircut

When Slade steps out of the front door he is blinded for a moment by the white, fizzing sunlight and reaches instinctively for his dads hand.

Its the first really warm day of the year, an unexpected heat that bridges the cusp between spring and summer. Father and son are on their way to the barbershop, something they have always done together.

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As Always, the routine is the same. Its about time we got that mop of yours cut, Slade's dad will say, pointing at him with two fingers, a cigarette wedged between them. Perhaps I should do it. Where are those shears Janet?

Sometimes his dad chases him round the living room, pretending to cut off his ears. When he was young Slade used to get too excited and start crying, scared that maybe he really would lose his ears, but he has long since grown out of that.

Mr. Chuckles' barbershop is in a long room above the chip shop, reached by a steep flight of stairs. There is a groove worn in each step by the men who climb and descend in a regular stream. Slade follows his father, annoyed that he cannot make each step creak like his old man can.

Slade loves the barbershop its like nowhere else he goes. It smells of cigarettes, men, and hair oil. Sometimes the smell of chips will climb the stairs along with a customer, and when the door opens the waiting men lift their noses together.

Black and white photographs of men with various out-of-fashion hairstyles hang above a picture rail at the end of the room, where two barbers chairs are bolted to the floor. They are heavy, old-fashioned chairs with foot pumps that hiss and chatter as Mr. Chuckles, the rolls of his plump neck squashing slightly, adjusts the height of the seat.

In front of the chairs are deep sinks with showerheads that have long metal hoses attached to the taps, not that anyone seems to use them. Behind the sinks are mirrors and on either side of these, shelves overflowing with a mixture of plastic combs (some plunged into a glass bowl containing a blue liquid), shaving mugs, scissors, cut throat razors, hair brushes, stacked neatly in a pyramid, and 10 bright red tubs of Brylcreem.

At the back of the room sit the customers, silent for most of the time, except when Mr. Chuckles breaks off from cutting and takes a drag of his cigarette, sending a wisp of gray-blue smoke like the tail of kite twisting into the air.

When it is Slade's turn for a cut, Mr. Chuckles places a wooden board covered with a piece of oxblood red leather across the arms of the chair, so that the barber doesnt have to stoop to cut the boys hair. Slade scrambles up onto the bench.

The rate youre shooting up, you wont need this soon, youll be sat in the chair, the barber says.

Wow, says Slade, squirming around to look at his dad, forgetting that he can see him through the mirror. Dad, Mr. Chuckles said I could be sitting in the chair soon, not just on the board!

So I hear, his father replies, not looking up from the paper. I expect Mr. Chuckles will start charging me more for your hair then.

At least double the price, said Mr. Chuckles, winking at Slade.

Finally Slade's dad looks up from his newspaper and glances into the mirror, seeing his son looking back at him. He smiles.

Wasnt so long ago when I had to lift you onto that board because you couldnt climb up there yourself, he says.

They dont stay young for long do they, kids, Mr. Chuckles declares. All the men in the shop nod in agreement. Slade nods too.

In the mirror he sees a little head sticking out of a long nylon cape that Mr. Chuckles has swirled around him and folded into his collar with a wedge of cotton wool. Occasionally he steals glances at the barber as he works. He smells a mixture of stale sweat and aftershave as the barbers moves around him, combing and snipping, combing and snipping.

Slade feels like he is in another world, noiseless except for the scuffing of the barbers shoes on the lino and the snap of his scissors. In the reflection from the window, a few small clouds moved slowly through the frame, moving to the sound of the scissors click.

Sleepily, his eyes dropping to the front of the cape where his hair falls with the same softness as snow, he imagines sitting in the chair just like the men and older boys. The special bench left leaning against the wall in the corner.

He thinks about the picture book of bible stories his aunt gave him for Christmas, the one of Samson having his hair cut by Delilah. Slade wonders if his strength will go like Samsons.

When Mr. Chuckles has finished, Slade hops down from the seat, rubbing the itchy hair from his face. Looking down he sees his own thick, blonde hair scattered among the browns, grays and blacks of the men who have sat in the chair before him. For a moment he wants to reach down and gather up the broken blonde locks, to separate them from the others, but he does not have time.

The sun is still strong when they reach the pavement outside the shop, but it is less fiery now, already beginning to drop from its zenith.

I tell you what, lad, lets get some fish and chips to take home, save your mom from cooking, says Slade's dad and turns up the street.

The youngster is excited and grabs his dads hand. The thick skinned fingers close gently around his and Slade is surprised to find, warming in his fathers palm, a lock of his own hair.

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