David’s Haircut
When David steps out of the front door he is blinded for a moment by the white, strong sunlight and reaches for his dad’s hand automatically. It’s the first really warm day of the year, an unexpected heat that bridges the gap between spring and summer. Father and son are on their way to the barbershop, something they have always done together.
Always, the routine is the same. “It’s about time we got that mop of yours cut,” David’s dad will say, pointing at him with two fingers, a cigarette caught between them. “Perhaps I should do it. Where are those scissors, Janet?” Sometimes his dad runs after him round the living room, pretending to cut off his ears. When he was young, David 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 Samuels’ barbershop is in a long room above the chip shop, reached by a steep and worn flight of stairs. David follows his father. He loves the barbershop — it’s like nowhere else he goes. It smells of cigarettes and 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 barber’s chairs are fixed to the floor. They are heavy, old-fashioned chairs with foot pumps that screams as Mr Samuels adjusts the height of the seat. In front of the chairs are deep sinks with a showerhead and long metal pipe 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 all types of plastic combs, shaving mugs, scissors, cut throat razors, hair brushes and, 10 bright red bottles of Brylcreem(男士发油), piled neatly in a pyramid. At the back of the room sit the customers, silent for most of the time, except when Mr Samuels breaks off from cutting and smoke his cigarette, sending a stream of grey-blue smoke like the tail of kite twisting into the air.
When it is David’s turn for a cut, Mr Samuels places a wooden board covered with a piece of red leather across the arms of the chair, so that the barber doesn’t have to bend to cut the boy’s hair. David scrambles up onto the bench.
“Hey, young man, you’re shooting up, you won’t need this soon, you’ll be able to sit in the chair,” the barber says.
“Wow,” says David, turning round to look at his dad, forgetting that he can see him through the mirror. “Dad, Mr Samuels 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 Samuels will start charging me more for your hair then.”
“At least double the price,” said Mr Samuels, winking at David.
Finally David’s dad looks up from his newspaper and glances into the mirror, seeing his son looking back at him. He smiles.
“Wasn’t so long ago when I had to lift you onto that board because you couldn’t climb up there yourself,” he says.
“They don’t stay young for long do they, kids”, Mr Samuels declares. All the men in the shop nod in agreement. David nods too.
In the mirror he sees a little head sticking out of a long nylon cape. Occasionally he steals glances at the barber as he works. He smells a mixture of smelly sweat and aftershave as the barber moves around him, combing and cutting, combing and cutting.
David feels like he is in another world, noiseless except for the sound of the barber’s shoes rubbing on the plastic carpet and the click of his scissors. In the reflection from the window he could see through 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 softly as snow and 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. David wonders if his strength will go like Samson’s.
When Mr Samuels has finished, David hops down from the seat, rubbing the itchy hair from his face. Looking down he sees his own thick, blonde hair mixed among the browns, greys 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 hair, to separate them from the others, but he does not have time.
They reach the pavement outside the shop. “I tell you what, boy, let’s get some fish and chips to take home, save your mum from cooking tea,” says David’s dad and turns up the street.
The youngster is excited and catches his dad’s hand. The thick-skinned fingers close gently around his and David is surprised to find, warming in his father’s palm, a handful of