David's Haircut

KenElkes –edited version

When David steps out of the front door he is blinded for a moment by the white, fizzing sunlight and reaches instinctively for his dad's hand. It's the first really warm day of the year, and father and son are on their way to the barbershop, something they have always done together.

The routine is the same. "It's about time we got that mop of yours cut," David's dad will say, pointing at him with two fingers, a cigarette wedged between them. "Perhaps I should do it. Where are those shears Janet?" Sometimes his dad chases him round the living room, pretending to cut off his ears. When he was young David used to start crying then, scared that maybe he really would lose his ears, but he has grown out of that.

Mr Samuels' barbershop is in a long room above the chipshop, reached by a steep flight of stairs. It smells of cigarettes and men and hair oil. There is a groovewornin each step by the men who climb and descend in a regular stream. David follows his father, annoyed that he cannot make each step creak like his old man can.

David loves the barbershop - it's like nowhere else he goes. Black and white photographs of men with various out-of-fashion hairstyles hang on the wall, above two barber's chairs. At the back of the room sit the customers, silent for most of the time, except when Mr Samuels takes a drag on his cigarette, sending grey-blue smoke in the air.

When it is David's turn for a cut, Mr Samuels places a wooden board across the arms of the chair, so that the barber doesn't have to stoop to cut the boy's hair. David scrambles up onto the board. "The rate you're shooting up, you won't need this soon, you'll be sat in the chair," the barber says. "Wow," says David, squirming round to look at his dad, forgetting that he can see him through the mirror. "Dad, Mr Samuels said I could be sitting in the chair soon, not just on the board!"

"So I hear," his father replies, not looking up from the paper. "I expect Mr Samuels will start charging me more for your hair then." "At least double the price," said Mr Samuels, winking at David. Finally, David's dad looks up from his newspaper and glances into the mirror, seeing his son looking back at him. He smiles. "Wasn't so long ago when I had to lift you onto that board because you couldn't climb up there yourself," he says.

"They don't stay young for long do they, kids," Mr Samuels declares. All the men in the shop nod in agreement. David nods too. David feels like he is in another world, noiseless except for the scuffing of the barber's shoes on the lino and the snap of his scissors. In the reflection from the window he could see through the window, a few small clouds moved slowly through the frame, moving to the sound of the scissors' click.

Sleepily, his eyes dropping to the front of the cape where his hair falls with the same softness as snow and he imagines sitting in the chair just like the men and older boys, the special bench made for him from the board left leaning against the wall in the corner.

When Mr Samuels has finished, David hops down from the seat, rubbing the itchy hair from his face. Looking down he sees his own thick, blonde hair scattered among the browns, greys and blacks of the men who have sat in the chair before him. For a moment he wants to reach down and gather up the broken blondelocks, to separate them from the others, but he does not have time.

The sun is still strong when they reach the pavement outside the shop, but it is less fiery now, already beginning to drop from its zenith. "I tell you what, lad, let's get some fish and chips to take home, save your mum from cooking tea," says David's dad and turns up the street. The youngster is excited and grabs his dad's hand. The thick-skinned fingers close gently around his and David is surprised to find, warming in his father's palm, a lock of his own hair.