Everyone knows the situation. This story is on a gay sight. It includes homosexual talk. Age restrictions per your state. Let me know what you think, this is my first submission. Feel free to email me: xenos0121@gmail.com
The New Barber
It was plain to see, if anyone had been looking at me when I pulled outside his house; I was irritated. We had spoken the night before and I had thought everything was set
?Can I come tomorrow at 9 in the morning?? I asked as I lay on my couch one foot planted on the floor while the other light swung back and forth.
?Yea brah, it shudn?t be a problem,? he answered matter-of-factly.
?Are you sure cause you?re never up Anthony and I always end up waiting,? I protested.
?I?ll be awake!!?
I hung up the phone; here we are at 9:12 and he hasn?t responded to my text messages, he isn?t outside, and once again I am being forced to wait. I tapped the wheel of my chair, changed the station a few times, and in pure desperation, tried his cell again.
?You?ve reach Anthony. If I didn?t answer, I?m busy right now. Leave a message at to??
I clicked the end button in frustration and drove to the barbershop. I was hoping against all hope that he was there; that there existed some chance that he had walked around the corner to the shop and was waiting for me. I turned off the car, exited while grabbing my wallet, and hurried to the door. He was waiting for me, and I was sure of it. The sign was light open when I approached, so I pulled on the door.
?Damn, is this for real? The door is locked!?
I looked around. A helicopter flew by, a lady and I exchanged nonsense banter while a woman who was listening laughed at me. I was pissed, I was tired (it was pretty early), and on top of it all, I looked a mess. Why is it so difficult to get a haircut at the barbershop, of all places?
?You need a cut??
I turned around to see a barber who I had glanced over the last time I was in the shop. He was about 5?9?, light skinned Hispanic. From Anthony I gathered that he was of Dominican ancestry. He had a heavy accent and it was clear that he spoke little English.
?No, just an edge up,? I nonchalantly responded.
?I do it.?
I followed him to the door. He unlocked it and walked me to his chair. I sat down, was draped with the cover, and explained how I liked it done.
?Square the front, skinny on the side burns, shape the eyebrows and mustache, shave all the hair off, and round the back please,? I demonstrated as I asked him.
?You want I lower it??
?No thank you, just the shape up please.?
This ended our conversation. There was no television on and no one in the shop but him and I. He began cutting the back of my hair.
He was meticulous. He went slowly and checked and double checked his work often. This level of care I was use to from the Dominicans, so this wasn?t surprising.
He turned my chair so I could face the mirror. I always look into the mirror so I can see the work as its coming along, in case I want to lodge some early complaints. When I looked up, he stood right behind me, grabbed the sides of my face, and held my face into the mirror. He looked into my eyes.
In all my years of getting my hair cut, I had never experienced such a gaze. He pierced me so deeply that I could not even forcibly look away. He held his gaze for what seemed like hours, but I am sure was only minutes, seconds even. All the while, he was still caressing the side of my face, his hands just barely grasping my skin. He moved my head back into his chest, and began aligning the front of my hair. I held my breath; still, I am not completely sure why. I wanted to look up but fear control my pupils, cornea, and tendons attached to my ear. He put my head forward again.
After that encounter, every touch had a life of its own. He brushed my eyebrows gently with his thumb that was airily covered with water, he held my chin firmly, but delicately to even out my mustache, and he stood into me while fixing my side burns. The shocks that pulsated through my body were at times unbearable, and at other times, exquisite. He showed me so much compassion, and he wasn?t even done.
He stood behind me again and those deep caramel eyes looked into me as I gaped back with my dark chocolate eyes. He brushed the sides of my face and took a solid hold to push my head once again into his chest. I let my head rest on his chest, not into it. I wanted to see what would happen. When he pushed into my head, I felt no qualms with releasing every muscle from its employment and resting solidly against him. This time not even fear could stop me from looking at him. My eyes slowly began moving north, so slow I could full the muscles contracting and releasing to make the movement possible. It was amazing: the smile that peered down at me. Simply amazing!
When all the hair was removed, he rubbed an ointment on my face. It did not burn; rather, it was cool to the touch like biting into a fresh, cold cucumber on a hot, humid late-July day. He continued to massage it into my face until all signs of the refreshing, white substance had disappeared. He then took a hot cloth and wiped my face down.
He sprayed my hair with oil, rubbed my skin with alcohol, and then blew dry any free hair off of me. When I finally stood up, I looked into the mirror. The cut was perfect, but I needed to spend another second in his presence, another moment around his perfect smile, compassionate touch, or whimsical smell. I just wanted to be around him a little bit more.
?How much do I owe??
?10,? he replied.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out $15. I looked at him as he slowly reached for the money and I even more slowly attempted to give it to him. I finally placed it in his hand. He closed his hand around my money and onto my fingertips.
?Thank you so much. It looks great.?
?No problem. I be here in morning all da time?
?Thanks and have a good day!?
With that, I walked out of the barbershop leaving behind the nameless man silently hoping and knowing that I would see him again.
?Hey you still around,? is what the text I finally got from Anthony said.
?Nah, I let that new guy, the one you spoke good Spanish to cut my hair. Anthony he was sick.?
?Nah he ain?t sick, he just got some cool tools.?
Anthony was right on one part: he wasn?t sick. He was the probably the best barber I?ve ever had.