You Know the Feeling

by Chris Creemer

You know the feeling: a long flight, strange town, airport, taxi, hotel room and a night to finish the report before you visit the possible new client the next day. I do it regularly for at least two or three times a month. Well that is how it all began.

I found myself in a small hotel room in some small town upstate. I ran out of printer ink and I needed a couple of things, so I found myself at the local Mall. At least it would get me away from the laptop and out the hotel room for an hour … or so I thought.

Then I saw the barbershop. It was right at the end of the Mall, really tucked away. It was 8.00pm and I was surprised that it was still open. I needed a haircut anyway. I hadn’t had a chance to get it cut for a few weeks and although it wasn’t all that necessary, or so I thought, and since the barber had no customers I thought I would get a quick tidy up. Although the Mall was typically flashy -- chrome and modern -- stepping into the shop was a trip back in time. The shop looked as if it had been transplanted straight out of the 1950s. Posters for Brylcreem graced the walls and behind the counter were various small bottles of hairdressings. But it was the strange sweet perfume that really seemed to bring back childhood memories of haircuts. I know now that this was the perfume of Wild Poppy.

The barber was in his fifties. His grey hair was cut in a typical parted style of that era. He smiled at me and nodding, directed me to the chair. "Quiet night….?" I said, if only to say something. "It gets busy later," he said smiling. "That’s a bit unusual for a Tuesday night?" I said quizzically. He just smiled and said "What’ll it be tonight Sir?" "Just a bit of a trim, I have business meeting tomorrow and I want to look my best." "Fine ….hmm…" He said as I looked at him in the mirror.

He picked up an old fashioned striped cape and through it over me and fastened it around my neck. He placed a small towel around my neck and then picked up the scissors and comb and began snipping and trimming the sides. "How short do you want this buddy?" "I don’t know ... what do you think … just an inch or so …" Maybe because I was a bit tired or maybe because of something else but when he said, "How long have you been wearing your hair this way? You ever considered something different?" I simply said, "…not really. What do you think?" "Well, buddy, if I had an important meeting tomorrow I would want to look my best. I would want my hair cut to be real sharp." I didn’t quite know why but I just said "Go for it."

He picked up the clippers and I heard that buzzing for the first time since childhood. He began clipping the back and sides of my head. The clippers somehow seemed to be massaging my neck. I felt so relaxed as he went to work. The snipping and cutting and combing went on and on .... but I was so relaxed in the chair I didn't mind. I looked up and saw myself in the mirror. I looked completely different. My ears could be seen free of hair. It seemed all very dreamlike.

As he finished cutting he grabbed a hose and gave my head a quick spray of water. It seemed cold after the warm hands of the barber. Then he moved to the counter and pushed on a plunger that dispensed a dollop of creamy white stuff. He quickly massaged the goop into my hair which instantly took on a brilliant sheen. I could barely recognize myself. The visage in the mirror was so completely different.

He continued combing and snipping and as he worked I heard the shop door open. I looked up and saw two young men enter. I was struck that each of them wore short sleeved white shirts and ties and black or dark trousers and each had short parted and heavily greased shiny hair. One was dark haired and one blond. I assumed that they must have all worked at the supermarket in the Mall as their white shirt look was worn by the guys who collected the shopping trolleys. They spoke as one "Good evening Mr. Brandt." "Good evening boys. Take a seat I won’t be long."

I looked down as the barber continued trimming and tidying up the hair on my neck and as he grabbed the shaving cream and brush, I looked at the cape which was now covered with my black hair. I felt hot lather and the scraping of a razor removing the last untidy hairs.

I heard the door open again. I looked up as best I could as my head pushed down as the barber finished the back of my neck. This time it was a man in a leather jacket and jeans and he wore a 50’s style pompadour. As he sat the barber said to me "Is that ok!?" Holding a mirror up at the back I could see how the barber had cut my hair is an extremely short fade on the back and sides and then had greased my hair to hold it in place and to make it shine. I was surprised at how different I looked and how it felt. He finished with one final comb through and I smiled weakly agreeing with him that I looked sharp. I had to admit that my hair looked very good.

Then as I stood, the door opened once more. This time an older man entered. His grey hair kept in place by a shiny layer of hair oil. "Good evening Mr. Johnson." The barber said respectfully. "Good evening Mr. Brandt." "A new convert Mr. Brandt?" the man said looking in my direction. "I am not sure Mr. Johnson?" The barber answered and he smiled at me questioningly. "errr... I don’t know what you mean?" I muttered, unsure of what I was being asked. "Do you like your greased hair son?" Johnson asked. "I sure look different." I answered with a smile.

Mr. Johnson seemed to have a presence I could not define. I noticed when he spoke everyone was quiet. "But do you like it?" Johnson asked again. "Yes I like it." I meekly agreed and I had to admit I did look a lot sharper than normal. "Well keep it that way in the future boy!" Johnson said with a smile. I stood there like a small boy being told by his father to do something.

The barber started to sweep up the hair from my haircut. He smiled at Johnson. I fumbled in my pocket for my wallet. I noticed one of the blond haired young men get into the chair. The barber was throwing the cape over the guy. His already short haircut was soon to be made shorter by the barber.

I stood at the counter waiting to pay. "Your cut is on me?" Johnson said. "What?" I asked a bit stunned that a complete stranger would want to pay for my haircut. "Buddy, when a guy goes over to grease I am happy to pay." He said. "I can’t accept buddy, but thanks for the offer." I couldn’t understand why Mr. Johnson wanted to pay for me. "It would be my pleasure son." He said more firmly. Somehow I found I had to accept his offer. And nodding acceptance I said, "Ok!" He moved behind the counter and threw me a tube of Brylcreem. "Here, you will need this!"

Meanwhile, the buzzing of the clippers began as the barber began shearing the young man’s hair. "You see son, the other guys here all like to look sharp and they like other men to look sharp too. Now David here …" he said pointing to the young man in the chair. "…well he is one of my employees and I insist on my staff looking professional at all times. When he started with us he was a bit scruffy but Mr. Brandt soon fixed that. And John here was a bit of a hippy but now he has turned into an Elvis fan, haven’t you John?" He said turning to the guy in the leather jacket who smiled in agreement "Sure thing Mr Johnson." "On the other hand Ian comes from a family where the men always look good. Don’t you Ian?" He said to the other young man. "Sure thing Mr Johnson. My dad would whoop me good if I left the house and I was untidy and that meant ungreased!" Ian smiled at me.

The atmosphere in the barbershop was strange and a little unsettling but I found I could only agree with Mr Johnson.

As I turned to leave I saw my hair again in the mirror. I looked so different. Gone was the tired 1980s do I had been wearing replaced by a sharp 1940s style parted cut. My hair shone under the fluorescent lights of the shop and the white of my skin on the back and sides of my head showed through for the first time in years.

I closed the door and took one last look at the shop. The barber, Mr. Brandt, was massaging more goo into the young man’s newly shorn hair making it even shinier.

I walked back to my hotel room and was a little shocked to find that I had spent nearly three hours at the Mall. I quickly finished off my report on the laptop and jumped into bed. The night seemed a bit of a dream, but the strange feeling of creem in my hair jolted me into reality. I fell asleep almost immediately. It had been a long day all things considered.

The following morning I woke to the alarm I had set to ensure I would be on time and showered and shaved. I stood in front of the mirror and looked at my freshly shorn head. Almost unconsciously I grabbed the tube of grease ….I squeezed a dollop onto my hand and greased my hair for the first time. I combed it into place and stood back and looked in the mirror. Perhaps not as sharp an image as the barber had managed but certainly not too bad I thought.

I presented myself at the office of my prospective client on time at 9.00am. I was rather surprised to be greeted by David, the blond man from the barbershop. "I am Mr. Johnson’s secretary sir. He is expecting you. Go right in ….." I looked at David. His short hair was immaculately held in place by grease. His blond hair turned golden by the creem. His white short sleeved shirt seemed starched and I could see a ribbed athletic tee-shirt underneath it and his black pants and dark tie seemed to finish off the neat look.

David ushered me into Mr. Johnson office. He too was in a white shirt and tie and dark pants. His hair shining under the office lights. "Glad you could make it." Johnson said as I entered ….

Well that was several months ago and now I work for Mr Johnson. I have moved to his small town. My hair is heavily greased. I wear only white short sleeve shirts. I have grown used to the haircut inspections and the regular Tuesday night trips to Mr Brandt’s barbershop for haircuts and to be greased up to please Mr. Johnson. He says I am doing well I know I want to impress him.

The author can be reached at: ceebee@alphalink.com.au

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