Week 17: Busy Day at the Barbershop

The spring air was crisp when Fred Jones stepped outside his shop to take a few puffs off of his old stogie. He’d promised his wife to give them up years ago, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. “A man needs a vice or two,” he remembered his father saying every once in a while. Fred Sr. was a coal miner who smoked 2 packs a day. The hacking that resulted from the tar and the coal dust in his lungs caused him to take up mountain cough syrup; cheap whiskey, lemon juice and honey. He was by no means a drunkard, but he sure did love a good swig every now and then. 

It was two o’clock on a Wednesday and that meant Mr. Walker from the bank would be coming over for his weekly haircut. Gerald Walker was a man in his sixties who had been the president of the local bank for almost thirty years. He was tall and slim, with wireframe glasses and a bushy white mustache. Fred watched him exit the front of the bank and cross the street toward the barbershop.

“Can’t beat this weather, huh Fred?” the banker said with a smile as he stopped beside his friend. 

“Not with a stick. You makin’ any money today?” he asked. It was an old joke they shared.

Gerald cocked his head to the side. “Never enough, pal. Never enough.” They both chuckled and headed into the shop. Fred pulled the apron off of the chair and motioned for his friend to have a seat. 

“How’s the misses?” he asked as he put the apron around Gerald’s neck. 

The old banker nodded his head a little. “She’s doing well. Had a nasty headache last weekend and we didn’t make it to church. But she’s fit as a fiddle. And yours?” 

“Mean as ever!” he said with a wide grin. They both laughed, knowing that there wasn’t a sweeter woman on the planet than June Jones. He pulled out a set of trimmers and started shaping up Gerald’s hair. 

The old banker sniffed. “Well Fred, I gotta tell you about my youngest grandson.”

“What’d that little fella get into?” he asked. Fred had heard several stories about Carson Walker, the terror of Black Grass Preschool and tyrant of Hawkins Lane. His tantrums were as legendary as his cuteness. 

“Well, yesterday, my son is picking him up from preschool. The teacher has green gunk in her hair and her glasses are taped up in two spots. She says, ‘Carson wasn’t feeling like he wanted to engage with Slime Time today and threw a bowl at one of the students.’ Luckily, he hit the teacher instead, I guess. So he broke the poor woman’s glasses and slimed her up pretty good.” 

Fred clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Sounds like a rough day for the little guy.”

Gerald gave a hard chortle. “Oh! That’s just the beginning. Carson then gets down in the floor of the car, kicking and screaming because he doesn’t want to get a haircut. Tears and snot flying everywhere. Smacking the ground. Throwing toys. My son said that it was the worst he’d ever seen Carson act!” 

The barber put up his clippers and pulled out a shiny pair of scissors. “Well, sounds like he got his way, because I didn’t see him in here yesterday afternoon.”

“I’ll tell ya, Bobby had to promise him a trip to the playground, pizza for dinner and a candy bar for desert. And he got to stay up past his bedtime to watch a movie. And even with all of this, Carson made his dad take him to Quick Cuts!”

Hearing “Quick Cuts” made Fred shake his head. He’d been losing more and more business to the shop over by the SuperCenter for the past year now. “Did he at least get his hair cut?” 

Gerald nodded his head. “Far as I know. I saw a picture of him in the chair, playing on his dad’s phone and getting trimmed up. They came up to our house yesterday evening with ice cream cones and grass stained shorts. I’m just gonna assume they went home and watched a bunch of cartoons after that.”

“Gotta pick ya battles, Gerry. Gotta pick your battles.” Fred pulled out a hard bristle brush and swept the tiny hairs from his neck.

Mr. Walker reached into his pocked and pulled out a $20 bill and handed it to his barber. “That’s good advice, Fred. I might just steal that.”

A little later in the afternoon, one of his few female customers came in for a trim. Lou Rodriguez had been coming into his shop since she was a young girl. And Fred had recognized some truths about young Lou before even she had known them, he expected. One of Fred’s sisters, Jean, now lived in Louisville as John. When they were growing up, Fred and Jean had been very close and, for a time, his transition had been hard on Fred. But, one day, Fred came to realize that his sister Jean had actually been his bother John all along and his having to pretend to be a girl all of those years was a kind of torture. And the last thing Fred wanted for any of his family was to suffer. So, Fred and John have been thick as thieves, just as they were as kids, for years now. 

Fred saw a little of John in Lou when she would come in and ask for a buzz cut. Lou’s dad didn’t speak a ton of English, but Fred had picked up a few words of Spanish in the service. So, they could communicate enough to figure out that Lou’s mother did not want her little princes to have a flat top. A compromise was reached and Lou got a clipper cut with short sides. She was happy and mom would’t have a complete meltdown. 

Now, almost ten years later, Lou was still coming to see Fred about every three weeks or so to get the same haircut. The purple stripe down the side, she did on her own, however. “How you doin’ today, Mr. Fred?” she said as she plopped down into the chair. 

“Oh, we’ve had worse days in these parts. How’s by you?” he said as he draped the cover over her shoulders. 

She smiled on one side of her mouth. “I got my welding final in a couple weeks. Then, I’ll be certified.”

“Big callin’ for that right now, what I’ve heard,” the old barber said as he pulled out his clippers. 

“I sure hope so,” she chuckled. “Donna’s got another semester of Nursing school, so I’m hoping to find something close.”

Fred nodded his head as he trimmed up her hair. “Good. We need young folks like you two ta stick around here. Peril County’s already loosin’ too many kids’ and us old folks is dyin’ off.”

“Out migration. That’s what they call it. Way I figure it. My parents were immigrants once, and they made their way here somehow. Well, I’m not sure I want to immigrate again.” She laughed a little. Fred did too. 

“Well, I’m tickled to death ya folks started up that restaurant. The missus ain’t much for ‘em, but I have a hard time turnin’ down a frozen margarita ever once in a while.” He put up his clippers and began to scissor cut the top of her head. 

“You ever heard of a welding rodeo?” she asked, looking out the window. 

Fred shook his head. “Can’t say as I have, but I can’t expect you’d be spot welding while riding a bull, now.” 

She grinned. “No, nothing like that. Just a bunch of welders get together and make some metal sculptures based on a single theme. It’s all done in a day and creates some art to be displayed. We’re thinking about doing one this summer.”

He pursed his lips and nodded. “That’s pretty interesting. What’s it take to put something like that together?” 

“We’re lookin’ into that. Gotta raise some money for supplies and then figure out where to display them when we’re done I guess.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what. Y’all get all the particulars figured out, you come see me and I’ll sponsor for $100. How’s that sound?”

Lou’s eyes grew huge on her face. “Mr. Fred! That’s too kind of you. Thank you so much.”

He grinned. “I’ll tell you; we need more things keepin’ you young folks engaged and involved. And if I can help, I’m gonna.”

He finished her cut and swept the hair from her neck and shoulders. “Pretty spiffy, if I do say so myself.” he said as he spun her around to the mirror. 

“That’s as good as I’m gonna look, Mr. Fred,” she said with a smile. 

“Glad I could play my part,” he smiled back at her.

She handed him a $10 bill and waved as she left the shop. 

It was getting dark a couple of hours later, as Fred started sweeping up the floor. The ringing of the telephone startled him; not many folks calling the barber shop these days. He lifted the handle of the old, red phone. “Jones’ Barber Shop.” 

“Uncle Fred? It’s me, Frannie!” Her voice sounded clear and strong. 

He hadn’t spoken to his niece in over two months, but was thrilled to be taking this call. “Frannie, how you doin’ baby? You sound good!” 

The sound of dishes clinking rang through the receiver. “I’m doing good, Uncle Fred. Real good. This place is really special and I think I’m making some real progress here.”

A wide grin spread across the old man’s face. “That’s good, kiddo. Real good. I dropped in on ya daddy couple days ago and checked in on ya youngun’s. They sure are sproutin’ up. Little Harley looks just lake you did at that age.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line, followed by a sorrowful sniffling. “I’m gonna do right by my babies, Uncle Fred. I ain’t been there for ‘em they whole lives. But I’m gonna make it up to ‘em.”

“I know you are, Frannie. We all do.”

They continued to chat for a few minutes. Frannie asked about cousins and nieces and nephews. Fred could hear how much better she felt, and it warmed up his soul. Eventually, Frannie’s time on the phone had run out. “They’re tellin’ me I gotta go. It sure was good talkin’ to ya, Uncle Fred.”

“You too, Frannie. You too.”

“Uncle Fred?” she said, sheepishly. 

“Yeah, baby.”

“I never got to say I was sorry for what happened to Grandma Jones’ house. I just…”

Fred cut her off. “Frannie, it’s fine. Really. Havin’ you home happy and healthy means more to me than any old house.” He could hear her wipe a tear from her cheek. “But I will kill that Anderson boy if I ever run up on him,” he thought.

“Thank’s Uncle Fred. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you!”

“Love you too, sweetie.” He hung up the phone and gave a look around the shop. Then, with a jerk, he reached back out for the phone and quickly dialed a number. After a few rings, a familiar voice answered.

“Jones residence.”

“June, baby, have you started cookin’ dinner yet?”

“No, I was about to, though. Why?”

“I’m in the mood to go out if you are. Let’s head over to Hazard and get some tacos.”

He could hear her turning this over in her mind. “Well, I’m not really dressed to go out,” she said, meekly. 

“Honey, who you tryin’ to impress. You already got me! So, unless you trying to pick up another man at the Tex-Mex joint, I think you’ll be fine.”

She chuckled softly. “Oh hush! I’ll be ready by the time you get here.”

He hung up the phone and went to turn off the lights. “Gonna get me a damn margarita or two while I’m at it!” he said with a little bounce in his step.