William Gass - Eyes - Novellas and Stories

You might have been wondering why a bunch of folding chairs would call their first employer “mother.” Well, we do it just for fun, and because we like to display our wit and boast of the way our legs snap open. Fate was being ironic when it assigned us to a mortuary for our first full tour of duty, deeply so, since that’s what mothers mainly do — give birth to an infant who will be able to restock the general supply and keep death ungratefully in business. The big black lady who fed the mourners cookies on small glass plates oiled our joints, because “around death, the quieter we be, the better, like those who have crossed over, it shows respect.”

When we were cut out of our cardboard casing, we did not know how much of the world might someday sit down upon us or surround us with a selection of its business noises, but we were fortunate in fate’s choice for us — a barbershop — since a barbershop was then closer to the center of things than almost any place readily available.

Six non-holidays a week, at eight in the morning, Walter would flip from CLOSED to OPEN the card that dangled from the doorknob. Then we would wait for the little ring the door gave out when the first customer came in. It was comforting, if business was brisk, to hear the snick of the scissors, the whisk of the hairbrush, and the skid of the barbers’ razors when they were rubbed amorously along the length of their leather strops. Some guys disappeared behind the daily paper, others lost face in a roil of white lather; a few would immediately begin broadcasting their complaints about the behavior of other citizens and the ills of the nation. These routine moans and groans hid their features, I always thought, as successfully as the daily news. A regular whose name was Barney bewailed the condition of the economy, but told us little about his own perilously thin resources. The conclusions of Clarence’s sentences were a bit shrill, as if his balls were being pinched, an explanation that pleased Barry Buttock, who first conjectured it. Clare would drift in most every morning before nine just to say hi! I wondered did he have a home or other friends or a place to hang his hat. Then our row of seats would begin to fill with customers, often greeting one another, their rumps already weighing — each in its own way — upon our crisscrossed legs. They weren’t the only ones who felt the relief of leaving their feet so as to settle down upon Deadly Reckoning or Natty Know-it-all, often the first ones chosen because they were stationed in the favored end of our row, and had, in consequence, aisle seats, with only one well-sited shoulder. Perce wants me to say that he was superior to the rest of us because being built without a brace was like being born without an appendix. If it suits him in his heart to say it worked that way, why not say it worked that way, say I.

The murmur of the barbers and their clients, the clicks and snicks of implements, and the buzz of shavers were fairly constant and they were comforting too, reassuring the ear that all was well; and usually this carpet of clatter was punctuated only by the brief ring of the phone when an unheard voice asked for an appointment.

Our shop was mainly a walk-in. We were no highbrow female hair parlor. No sir, we weren’t run by the style bunnies and their frightened hops into the latest fashions.

Early in our careers…just a min…the mortuary died a short time after we began working there, ha ha, we made rueful jokes about that, and we were stacked, roped, and dumped into a Goodwill without the least acknowledgment of the value of our previous service, which was exemplary even if brief…As I was about to say, we Chairs sat at tables for a month in a small bar hereabouts, that’s my only experience of bartenders, and we found them, to a seat, to be careless with their equipment and noisy at their handling, banging mugs about and crushing ice, but sullen as a bar rag, especially during the night shift. That’s not our twenty years with barbers. No one could be more garrulous, gossipy, and outgoing than these guys at Walter’s. It’s not that they learned to talk to the talc (normally quiet, like unused bars of soap) or were inclined to toss their towels a chuckle…no…but once collected with others of their kind they’d be comfortable as a cushion — their tongues danced all day. With a little wax paper, Mart would play something he claimed was Irish on one of his combs — I was never sure which one — and then, energized, jig his fingers among his hair-dye dishes without bumping any.

Next? Ah. Master Robinson. You get to be the ghost today, Walter might say to a small boy who at that moment looked a bit apprehensive. Just climb up here, he’d say, where the clouds are. I’ll make a ghost of yah. Then with a flourish the chalk white cloth would be pinned about the poor kid’s body. Dad might be getting his own hair cut, and needed to assure his son, if it was a first time for him, that the scissors didn’t hurt, these suddenly jovial men weren’t dentists, and that the boy should banish fear and let his mouth water in anticipation of the flat round all-day sucker that would be his mouthful when his haircut was admired at last. Older kids, who were by experience now undaunted, might be rewarded — it depended on relationships formed on the street and outside the range of our observations — with a recitation of Walter’s renowned menu. A few of its offerings were pictured on a cardboard sign like wanted men. The whole show went as I now render it, spoken in rapid-fire bursts followed by some explanatory pauses.

Hey honey bunch…hey handsome little guy…welcome to Walter’s, home of all your desires. You want a part, a perm, ringlets, or a razor cut…an Afro? How about I give you a texture treatment? Hey, you want bangs, do you dearie, a beehive, or a blowout? — oh man, oh madam, right here — bob or bowl or buzz cut — you’ll find their picture on row five — along with a bouffant doodoo…how about we do it up in a bun, then? So many choices, like chocolates, boxed by the letter B; maybe a Caesar, a comb-over, what say? You’re getting a little thin on top — no? — like a pond in a woods — no? — all right, no pond, no woods, maybe a few cornrows, a crew cut? We can just flat-out crop it off, straightaway give it a Croydon facelift (you know, that’s a topknot); how about trying the curtained style, devil and dreadlocks, ducktails ass or a ducktails flail? It’s just hair, my darling, how can you get so fussy? Okay honey, okay handsome, did you ever consider a Dutch braid, the false hawk, or the feathered look? All the rage; let’s give you a finger wave then, a fishtail, a flattop, flipflop, French twist, fringe cut…or how about half a ponytail, half an updo? No? So you’re that sort, a Hime cut, what say, okay?…Hi-top with a fade…

Walter would make waves as if he were conducting the atmosphere.

…you know what, I’ve got it! A loose curl would look great on you…old liberty spikes…like the statue, see there —your hair is standing up like it was scared; so a Mohawk, what do you think, handsome? Have you come to that? A mullet…a mullet? Come on, honey, be brave; do pageboy, pigtails, pixie cut — look cute — pompadour — look hip — full ponytail — look perky — whoa! Knick knack…

Walter would rock as if riding an animal. A canopy of white starch settled over the barber chair.

…Is recon, rattail, or the notorious frat shag on sale? I know your head and how it grows: from pasted wig to when its amorously tousled; weve got a full range; you could try a purely spiky look if you think it suits you, sure, or make your head into an ocean of waves, anything that floats; we remove short hairs, do nails till they cry uncle; we cut long tresses, trim beards — only as you wish, sure — schurre — we shave cheeks too, clean as a tin whistle — we will grease your mustache till it shines like a saloon sign — oh dear — you prefer the same cut as last time? — oh, yes, I remember — as it used to be — as it has always been .