Twenty minutes past my reservation. I’m late for a meeting. My foot taps; I check emails. The Barber – thick beard, leather apron – rolls up his sleeves. One-man shop. Too late to go anywhere else. 

Last week my new manager said I looked like a highland cattle. I had to Google it. Turns out: majorly insulting, and a brag about his Scottish whisky tour with the Board. Clean it up, he said, pointing his toothpick at my hair, or quit and go back to hacky sacking with your pals. 

Finally, the Barber’s done sweeping the last guy’s hair. The bell rings. In comes an old bald man. Tall-faced and sorta droopy, with delicate wireframes and a beige cardigan.

The Barber clasps the man’s shoulders and escorts him into the well-worn chair. 

What a way to run a freaking business. I stand and hold up my iPhone. “I have a reservation.”

The Barber’s face screws. “With who?”

“What do you mean with who?”

He points with his scissors at the clock. “Twelve thirty on Thursday’s always Dresden’s.”

“For what?” I point at the man, who is bald. 

“Well, oh.” The old man adjusts his glasses. “It’s not – well, yes. You’re right.”

“Ritual,” Barber says. His voice is mirthful, different than before. “Thursdays we have fun. Dresden gets The Works.” 

“Oh come on, I made a reservation online.”

The Barber taps his scissors on his beard like he’s thinking. “Huh, online!” He snaps the bib around the man’s neck. 

And what the hell do you say to that? 

So I sit, arms crossed. Make them feel bad for making me late. 

The Works: steaming towel, oil lather, peppermint, huge calloused hands massaging his scalp, the both of them talking, laughing (giggling, even), on and on. Twelve-inch feather dusters, leaky urethras, son-in-laws, thin mints (the Barber’s daughter is a Girl Scout). 

Emails buzz my pocket. I ignore them; my foot stills. The Barber’s cheeks flush (a joke about sauerkraut), and then he hands Dresden a mirror. Jesus, does he really need to examine his – but I catch myself. It doesn’t matter, his baldness.  

I rub my temples. I have a strange, beautiful image in my mind of a bunch of cattle playing hacky sack. The crisp sound of beans on a hoof.

I tried, boss. I tried to don the tie, to be a businessman, to have a nice framed photo on Mom’s mantel, just like my brother’s, but go ahead, mock me, fire me, because, well, I guess Thursday’s Dresden’s for Christ’s sake. 

“Hey,” I lean forward. “Do you have another order form? I love thin mints.”

*

Jacksón Smith is a writer based in Washington, DC. His work has appeared in G20, Diplomatic Courier, Childhood Education, and The Golden Antlers. He studied PPE and Creative Writing at Claremont McKenna College. His fiction explores the tension between logic and absurdity, the surreal within the mundane, and the strange ways people collide with their pasts.