Bradley doesn't get many visitors outside his barbershop. But he doesn't consider the men he cuts hair for visitors. Sure, they visit of sorts, at least some of them do. Some stay quiet, watching Bradley cut, vacuum their shoulders, and hold the mirror around their head for final approval. He keeps the mirror low with those with bald spots at their crowns.
"Got to," he tells some of the long-time customers when they ask why. "Otherwise, the bald spot would be all they see."
Bradley's two-chair barbershop has been in the neighborhood for years. Lloyd comes in on late mornings to find out if a crowd is waiting. If not, he'll hang around for a while to see if business picks up. He doesn't work as fast as Bradley. Lloyd can be tentative when a younger man comes in expecting more of a style than just a cut. Bradley doesn't tolerate too much direction from customers, sometimes suggesting there's a "hair stylist" down the street at the mall.
Modern times are more evident outside the shop's front door. Bradley acts as his own receptionist. Depending upon his mood he may greet you or just point at the empty chair in the small waiting room. There's nothing much there to entertain those waiting. Just stacks of magazines with cars or guns on the cover, an occasional newspaper from days back or the opportunity to scroll through your cell phone. Bradley never hung a TV on the wall. Longevity in the same location and word of mouth are his advertising vehicles. He only gave getting a website a momentary consideration.
Behind a small desk, steps from the waiting room, haircut rates and business hours mark a dark signboard using white letters. Other messages, like days closed during holidays, are handwritten on paper taped below the signboard. On the desk sits an old gray register with a pulldown handle to open the drawer. It isn't used to keep tally amounts, just to put money away and make change. Bradley writes in a lined notebook to keep track of the money coming in and the names of waiting customers.
Most of Bradley's customers are repeats. Some are anxious to talk about their lives and what they've been doing. One's health is a big topic as is fishing, irritations coming from a person's wife or grown child, and comments about a news broadcast announcing a government policy or a celebrity's misstep. Bradley keeps up on what's happening and is rarely stumped about a topic a customer brings up.
Every so often a customer will bring up something about women. Bradley always listens with interest. He doesn't let disparaging remarks get too far in a conversation and will go quiet and rush a haircut if the dialogue doesn't tone down. Bradley thinks about women often.
Part of that has to do with being raised by his mother. Another part is missing his former wife and living alone. It wasn't what he had planned. They had the usual marital dreams — good jobs, a house, kids, and a little travel. Things came to a halt when an autoimmune disease caused her to miscarry. Bradley didn't blame her, but he objected later when she got a tattoo with the name of the child they were going to have. It became a topic of conversation whenever she met someone new. Bradley felt they weren't moving on, so they argued. Then argued more about other things, and he drank. She left without asking for anything except her personal things. He hadn't seen her since.
Afterwards, dating always seemed awkward. He'd toss out opinions easily, especially how a woman looks or should have or could have done in a particular situation. He thought he did it in a nice way. But many times, it turned turn the date into a mawkish crowding of a woman trying to know him. Some gave him a second chance, most didn't.
His confidence waned, especially as he gained weight, his hair thinned, and a heart attack had him close his shop for a few months. A rediscovered religious faith stopped him from self-pity inertia. After recouperation he began wearing an easily noticed crucifix but stayed away from religion as a topic while cutting hair. After a year, he lost weight, used his barber's knowledge to add quality hair replacements to his look and updated his wardrobe. The bar scene still didn't seem comfortable. There are only so many club sodas he could drink. He began night walks downtown going pass up-scale lounges and clubs, places that made him wonder about but didn't tempt him in.
Still, when the topic of women came up at the barber chair, Bradley was bound to jump in. One story he tells customers happened during one of those walks.
"I was walking pass this club when this young lady came up to me and asked me if I wanted to go somewhere for a drink." Bradley stopped cutting hair, leaving the customer to wonder if it's a lead-in into a joke.
"So, what happened?" the customer would ask.
"Well . . . when she asked, I thought she was talking to someone behind me, so I turned around."
"Was she?" the customer asked.
"No," said Bradley, always a little excited telling this part. "She was talking to me, old guy me. She was young, maybe her mid-twenties, and dressed real nice — low cut tight dress, tiny purse, high heels. She was very pretty."
The customer stared at Bradley through the mirror in front of him. "So, what happened?"
"She asked me again, even said the drink was on her."
"Well, did you go?"
"I told her I didn't drink but thank you. She smiled and walked away."
The customer then would likely turn, face Bradley, and say, "That's it? She asked you out, this young woman by herself, for a drink, and you just let her walk away?" Then the customer would grimace, pause, getting a mental picture of the woman, and say, "I can see it. She was probably a hooker."
Bradley was never sure. If such a remark persisted, he would say that he had asked God periodically for someone to start a relationship with, someone thirty-five or so. He said it in a way that the listener wouldn't be quite sure if he really did mean it. "But I didn't want to pay for it," Bradley would always add. It was his way to dampen any thought that he had committed a male transgression by letting a young woman interested in him walk away.
After some months most of the regular customers had heard the story. Bradley quit telling the tale. He nurtured most of his hope on meeting someone in the grocery store aisle. Then, one day, with the shop in a lull, Lloyd at his chair reading a car magazine and Bradley in his chair looking at past
. photos of his former wife on his cellphone, Mia came in.
"Hi," Mia said walking into the waiting room. It was hot out, her face shined with sweat, and she was nervous. "I'm sorry to bother you but I need a little help. My car won't start. Either I'm out of gas or something else is wrong."
Bradley stayed in his chair but shifted to get a better look. Her skirt and blouse were stylist enough to detract from her full figure. He looked at her feet. Mia was wearing heels. Her feet probably hurt Bradley thought. Lloyd stopped reading and peeked pass the partition between the barber chairs.
"Where's your car? Outside?" said Bradley.
"No. It's down the street." Mia pointed to her left, then right. "I think it's that way. In the parking lot of a pizza shop."
Bradley looked back at Lloyd then turned around. "Why stop there? The nearest pizza place is at least six blocks away, down on Meyers."
Mia opened her purse. "Can I sit down?" Bradley motioned toward one of the chairs in the waiting room. Mia found a tissue then opened a compact to see herself in the mirror. She wiped her brow. "My uncle use to say that if I got in trouble go to a barber shop for help. That's why I came here — older guys and all that . . . more likely to help." Bradley was expressionless. Then Mia added, "He might have gotten his hair cut here."
Bradley turned and looked back at Lloyd. Lloyd shrugged his shoulders.
"So . . . take you to your car; see if I know what's wrong. Is that what you're asking?"
"If you don't mind."
Bradley thought of the young woman from his downtown walk. Mia didn't look anything like her. Her vulnerability was out in the open. "What was your uncle's name?" said Bradley.
"Bob."
"Bob what? I cut hair for a lot of Bobs."
Mia looked directly at Bradley. "Bob Shafer."
"Your last name Shafer, too?"
"No. Simmons. Mia Simmons. I was married once. I have a little girl. I just got back from a job interview. I think I got it."
Bradley never asked for a customer's last name. He tried not to take credit cards that would reveal someone's full name. Most of his regulars knew that. He could have cut her uncle's hair.
"He still around," said Bradley.
Mia shook her head.
Then turning to Lloyd. Bradley said, "I'll be gone for a while, at least an hour I think."
Bradley drove his pickup north with Mia. He turned into mall parking lot just before coming to Meyers. "I need to stop at the ATM," he said. Bradley didn't want to tell her he anticipated paying out something to help her. Opening the truck door, it quickly became clear to him that since he wasn't going shopping, she knew he was preparing do more than just drive her to her car. "It's hot. I'll keep the truck running for the air conditioner," said Bradley. Mia had her legs together and kept her head down. "You're not going to take the truck, are you?" he said, half-serious. She turned to him, gave him a smile and nodded as in yes. Bradley smiled back. "You probably can't drive a stick, can you." This time Mia shook her head no.
They turned right after leaving the parking lot. Bradley tried to picture a pizza shop this side of Meyers. "How far is it down?"
"Not far," said Mia, looking right then left.
By the third stoplight, Bradley did a U-turn. "I can't think of any pizza place this side of Meyers. You sure it wasn't on the other side of Lakeland?"
"It could be. I don't know."
Bradley glanced at her as he drove. How can anyone not know where they left their car? he asked himself. A look of worry came to Mia's face. "I know of a pizza place up here pass Lakeland," said Bradley. "Ate there once. The pizza wasn't that good." Mia let go a breath.
They found her older SUV at Big Pie Pizza. The car door was unlocked. Mia looked inside. "I thought I left the keys here." Bradley looked inside. "Did you look in your purse?"
"It's not in there."
Bradley looked back at the entrance to the pizza business. "They know you've got your car out here?" She nodded. "Maybe you should go back in and see if you left it there." Mia shut the car door.
"I know it's not there. I know," she said, glancing back at the front door. She walked toward Bradley's' pickup. "I have another key at my sister's. She's up the street a few miles."
Bradley opened the passenger door for Mia. He hesitated before getting in thinking about going into the pizza place. He drove in silence for a few blocks. She's young, maybe not too bright, maybe with a stupid boyfriend, he told himself.
"I really appreciate what you're doing," said Mia. "Thank you very much."
"Don't worry about it. Let's just get you through this."
Mia told him she worked at a large bar. It wasn't full time, and she barely made enough money to get by. Her daughter stayed partly at a friend's house when Mia worked, and with her at her sister's house other times. "You and your kid split time between two houses?"
"Yes," she said. "Have too."
"The dad in the picture?"
"We're having a custody battle. He's abusive." Mia showed her left hand to Bradley. The little finger was bent as if broken at one time. "He did this," she said.
Bradley knew now he was all in. He wondered if the guy was in the pizza place, if he took her key. Picturing such a guy wasn't hard. They're almost always the same. The only difference would be their job and how much money they make, whether it's in a tie or dirty denims; always full of false confidence even if they knew what they were doing; always wondering if everything they knew came from their father.
They got her other car keys and drove back to the pizza place. Bradley kept his eye on the front door as she tried to start the SUV. "I think it's out of gas," Mia said. "Can you loan me ten dollars? I can pay you back in a couple of days."
To Bradley, surprises were not part of the situation, now. "There's a gas station up the street. Hopefully, they have a gas can we can use."
Bradley told the clerk his daughter's car had run out of gas. Mia didn't object to being called Bradley's daughter. The clerk's look didn't linger as if there was another explanation and he brushed aside the offer for a deposit on the can. Back at the SUV, Bradley poured two gallons into the tank. It started, bringing Mia a big smile and a squeeze of his arm.
"Follow me up to the gas station and I'll get you some more gas. Pull up to one of the pumps while I return the gas can."
Mia stood near Bradley as he pumped gas into her car. Her uncle was right about going to a barbershop she thought as the meter went pass ten dollars. Bradley stopped at fifty dollars. "Thank you," Mia said. She opened her arms to hug him. Bradley thought his wife's pregnancy and their lost.
"You got more than ten because you don't have any tattoos," Bradley said. "But you still owe me ten dollars." Mia backed away while holding on to his hand. "Well . , , okay," she said, perplexed.
For a week or so Bradley thought she might come by the barber shop with the ten dollars. He knew the hope he carried for a while wasn't really about the money. Mia never returned to the barbershop. Bradley kept their story to himself when he cut hair.
Nice story. I can picture the barber shop in my mind. I used to get my hair cut at one like it in Crystal River, FL.