“Next?”
The row of ancient men on the cracked vinyl seats gave no response, as if enchanted into muteness.
Isabella Bruni repeated her question, turning it into more of a statement. Surely one of the guys would come forth and deposit himself in her chair, rest his feet on the metal platform, and let her attend to his hair. As one of the three barbers at Dale’s, next to Larry and John, she needed the patronage. But the old men who formed Dale’s clientele tended to be wary of a female haircutter. At 27, she was decent-looking, with a mane of auburn hair, expressive blue eyes, and an inviting smile she’d worked on. She wore loose shirts and tight jeans, the most she could manage without exciting comment. Hip but not slutty. When she went out to the clubs with her friend Marcie, she was a hell of a lot more out there.
The problem was with Dale’s, which had been around since the 1970s, and with the customers, who had aged along with the establishment. They were gray-haired, white-haired, sparse-haired, or balding, with ropy necks and unsteady hands. Regulars all, they sat patiently as the scissors flashed over their heads, Larry or John executing a point cut. They’d talk about golf or Florida vacations or which restaurant had the best early-bird specials. What could millennial Isabella contribute to such conversations? She’d been hired by Larry, the owner, after Hank, the third in the trio of barbers, had dropped dead of a stroke. Larry had decided it was time for a change. Isabella’s clipper and scissor work were adept; she had an easy patter and related well to her customers. They’d make remarks, some of them salacious. She’d taken an acting class once and laughed on cue.
And she really needed the work. Just a few months ago, after too many
DAVID GALEF’s latest book is Brevity: A Flash Fiction Handbook. His fourth novel, Where I Went Wrong, is forthcoming. He is a professor of English and the creative writing program director at Montclair State University. minimum-wage jobs, she had obtained her license from the Roslin Barber School. The interview at Dale’s had gone well, and Larry seemed like a kind boss. He was what Isabella’s father would have called roly-poly and therefore seemed affable. John had nodded, perhaps kindly. He was tall and stiff, his manner hard to read.
No one had anticipated how the senior citizens would react to a female wielding a pair of scissors like some modern-day Delilah. If Larry and John were busy and Isabella beckoned, many of the guys would grip their seats and nod in the direction of the other two chairs. She got enough customers so that she wasn’t standing on her feet all day doing nothing, but business could have been a lot better.
“Give it time”, Larry advised, spreading his hands.
“But not too much
