Second Chair

A thought today, perhaps, for those whose toil goes unnoticed or seen and unheralded.

I have never had a haircut i like.  Ever.  It isn't that I'm unhappy.  That ship left port a long time ago.  Rather, I just don't care.  I say what I want and something else happens.  Sigh, smile wanly, pay with tip.  Repeat.  This has been my routine for decades.  I once paid a lot for a haircut.  Somewhere with fancy mirrors, washbowls for shampooing, and 60 dollar scissors.  Same result only poorer for the effort.

Barber shops usually have at least two chairs, sometimes three.  The owner has the first chair (barbershops generally aren't "investment" opportunities), and some sad lump or two in the others.  If you're second chair in a barber shop, you might be saving up for your own shop, but usually its just some guy turning toddlers' crewcuts into glasses of rye at the veteran's hall.

At the place i go now, the second chair is held by a man in his nineties named, i think, Gifas.  He sweeps up for the owner's cuts and occasionally handles the overflow on busy days.  Study the face of the second chair barber when his chair empties and client after client politely waves off his solicitations, preferring to wait for the first chair.  As perfect an expression of abject purposelessness as you will ever see.

Several weeks ago, I did not defer.  I saw the line, I had places to go.  I couldn't wait.  Gifas, I'm yours.  What do i care?  It's not as if i was going to get the cut i wanted.  In all honesty, my hair isn't easy to cut. I've got three whorls all positioned at terrible locations.  If the etymology of cowlick is to be believed, surely my infant head must have tasted like a salt block to some heavenly bovine servant.  I even have two in my beard.

Gifas wears a smock.  Like a doctor.  Or a teenager working the makeup counter.  Like all persons born shortly after the Great War, his hands shake. 30 minutes later i looked like i was only missing the neck bolts and an angry mob to corner me in the windmill.  Or like i should wear overalls with no shirt and be kept from petting rabbits.  Sigh.

So today, with a little shaggy growth to erase Gifas' efforts, I headed back to try again.  Sure enough, there was a line for the first chair.  But something happened.  The timing of the cuts worked out in my favor.  The owner's chair opened up and Gifas was still working on insuring at least a week's worth of shame for some poor 11-year-old with an impatient mother.  The owner waved me over.

Every so often we are given an opportunity.  An opportunity to...I don't know.  To be...decent.  Maybe.  Or just to do something only for the sake of another.  There was someone in line after me for the first chair.  I looked at him, then at the owner.  The moment dilated enough that Gifas shaky hands slowed to a mild tremor and he looked in the mirror at the three of us.  No, I said to the owner.  I looked at the man next to me and told him to go ahead.  I looked at Gifas in his smock.  No wrinkles there.  Ironed every morning, no doubt.  A small breakfast in a small apartment.  Several smocks hung in a closet, each an emblem of a purpose.  A reason to get up, to get out, to be needed.  Maybe the reason he's lasted this long away from the support of his kids or the state.

Thanks anyway, I said.  I'll wait for Gifas.