IT IS NOT YET SEVEN O’CLOCK, BUT THE BARBERSHOP IS ALREADY open. The barber himself, an unwashed, greasy youth of twenty-three, is busy clearing up; there is really nothing to be cleared away, but he is perspiring with his exertions. In one place he polishes with a rag, in another he scrapes with his finger or catches a bug and brushes it off the wall.
The barber’s shop is small, narrow, and unclean. The walls are hung with faded paper decorated with cowboy hats and tin stars. Between the two dingy, perspiring windows there is a thin, creaking, rickety door, and above it a bell that trembles and gives a sickly ring of itself without provocation. Glance into the mirror that hangs on one of the walls, and it distorts your face in all directions in the most merciless way! The shaving and haircutting is done before this mirror. On the little table, as greasy and unwashed as the barber himself, there is everything: combs, scissors, razors, wax for the moustache, powder, watered-down cologne. The whole shop is not worth more than five hundred dollars.
There is a squeaking sound from the bell and an older man in a tanned sheepskin coat and high felt overboots walks into the shop. His head and neck are wrapped in a black scarf.
This is Billy Ray Cyrus, who patronizes the shop as a result of his friendship with the barber’s father.
“Good morning, son!” he says to the barber, who is absorbed in tidying up.
They shake hands. Billy Ray Cyrus drags his scarf off his head and sits down.
“What a long way it is!” he says, sighing and clearing his throat. “It’s no joke! From my house to here is almost two hours.”
“How are you?”
“Feeling poorly. I’ve had a fever.”
“A fever!”
“Yes, I have been in bed almost a week; I thought I might die. Then I had some complication, some vitamin deficiency, and a clump of my hair came out. Now my hair’s coming out. The doctor says I must be shaved. He says the hair will grow again strong. So that’s why I’m here. Better you than a stranger. You’ll do it better and won’t make me feel strange about it. Plus, it’s free. Except for the two-hour drive.”
“Of course. With pleasure. Please sit down.”
With a scrape of his foot the barber indicates a chair. Billy Ray Cyrus sits down and looks at himself in the glass and is apparently pleased with his reflection: the looking glass displays a face awry, with thin lips, a sharp nose, and eyes set high, almost in the forehead. The barber puts round his client’s shoulders a white sheet with yellow spots on it, and begins snipping with the scissors.
“I’ll shave you clean to the skin!” he says.
“Do it. I want to look like a bomb. The doctor says it’ll grow back thicker.”
“How’s Jackie Chan? The two of you are working on a movie together, right?”
“Yes. He sprained his ankle earlier this month.”
“His ankle? Too bad, though he must be used to that kind of thing. Hold your ear.”
“I am holding it. . . . Don’t cut me. Ouch! You are pulling my hair.”
“That doesn’t matter. We can’t help that in our work. And how is your daughter Miley?”
“Good, good. She was single for a bit, but then she got engaged. She’s going to have a big wedding. You should come.”
The scissors cease snipping. The young barber drops his hands and asks in a fright:
“Who is betrothed?”
“Miley.”
“How’s that? To whom?”
“To some guy named Steve. Steve Adams? He has a few stores near Sacramento. She swore off actors and celebrities, you know, because she doesn’t really need money. We were worried she wouldn’t find someone she could be herself around, but this guy seems great. We are all delighted. The wedding will be in two weeks. You should come; we will have a good time.”
“This is impossible,” says the barber, pale, astonished, and shrugging his shoulders. “It’s . . . it’s utterly impossible. Why, Miley . . . why I . . . why, I cherished sentiments for her, I had intentions. We spoke at length last summer about her decision to be done with actors. I thought she had a sense of me, of how I could make her happy. How could this be?”
“Why, we just went and betrothed her. He’s a good fellow.”
Cold drops of perspiration come on the face of the barber. He puts the scissors down on the table and begins rubbing his nose with his fist.
“I had intentions,” he says. “It’s impossible. I am in love with her and have just recently sent her a letter offering my heart. I have always respected you as though you were my father. I always cut your hair for nothing. When my father died you came in here and took some paintings off the walls and gave me nothing for them. Do you remember?”
“Remember! Of course I do. I love you like a son. But do you think you are a pair with Miley? It seems unlikely. You have no money and no standing. You are a barber.”
“And is Steve Adams rich?”
“Steve Adams is in sporting goods. He’s a little older than you are. He owns his house. Look. It’s no good talking about it. The thing’s done. You must look out for another bride. The world is not so small. Come, cut away. Why are you stopping?”
The barber remains motionless for a while. When he moves, it is to take a handkerchief out of his pocket. He begins to cry into it.
“What is it?” Billy Ray Cyrus comforts him. “Stop it. Damn it, you’re crying like an old woman! Finish my head and then cry. Don’t put down the clippers!”
The barber takes up the clippers, stares vacantly at them for a minute, then drops them again on the table. His hands are shaking.
“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t do it just now. I haven’t the strength! I am a miserable man! And she is miserable, I’m sure, with Steve Adams! Last summer we pledged our love to one another. We gave each other our promise. Now we have been separated by unkind people without any pity. Go away! I can’t bear the sight of you.”
Billy Ray Cyrus comes to his feet. “So I’ll come tomorrow. You’ll finish up then.”
“Right.”
“Get calm, and I’ll come by early in the morning.”
Billy Ray Cyrus has half his head shaven to the skin and looks like a convict. It is awkward to be left with a head like that, but there is no help for it. He wraps his head in the scarf and walks out of the barbershop. Left alone, the barber sits down and goes on quietly weeping.
Early the next morning the bell squeaks and Billy Ray Cyrus comes into the shop.
“What do you want?” the barber asks him coldly.
“Finish cutting my hair. There is half the head left to do.”
“Kindly give me the money in advance. I won’t cut it for nothing.”
Without saying a word, Billy Ray Cyrus goes out, and to this day his hair is long on one side of the head and short on the other. He regards it as extravagance to pay for having his hair cut and is waiting for the hair to grow of itself on the shaven side.
He danced at the wedding in that condition.