Cut Short

Twenty-some years ago, I moved to a small town in southern Kansas to start a teaching job. After a few weeks, I needed a haircut. I found a barbershop on Main Street with a clever name. The sign clearly stated they accepted walk-ins and wouldn’t be closing for another thirty minutes.

I walked in to find two men in their fifties wearing barber smocks. One was slouched in a barber chair, turned away from the mirror; the other was leaning against a counter with his arms crossed. They were clearly mid-conversation, but they stopped and stared as I entered.

Me: “Hello! Sorry to interrupt, but is there time for one more cut this afternoon?”

Seated Barber: “No.”

There is a long, deafening silence. Neither man moves. They just continue to stare at me.

Me: “…”

I turned toward the door, fully expecting a “Just kidding, pal! Hop in the chair!” but the silence followed me all the way to the sidewalk. I found a different shop the next week and stayed a loyal customer there for nearly twenty years. To this day, I have no idea if I interrupted a private meeting or if they simply didn’t feel like working for that final half-hour.