Hank's was a hole-in-the-wall barber shop, squeezed in between two larger buildings. A large old-fashioned barber pole adorned the outside of the single-level, painted brick structure. According to the sign on the glass door, the business was open nine to five. I was just in time.
I pulled the door open and a buzzer chimed, alerting the proprietor that someone had entered the establishment; the cold wind and some flying snow heralded my arrival just as effectively. I saw the barber, presumably Hank, sigh when he looked up at a customer coming in ten minutes before closing time. He was busy giving an older gentleman a haircut.
"I'm Hank and I'll be with you shortly," the barber said, nodding to me. He offered a friendly smile. "Can you do me a favour and turn the sign from 'open' to 'closed'?"
"Sure," I replied, grateful that I had arrived in time to get my trim. I switched the hanging door sign, hung up my coat and hat before taking a seat in the waiting area.
I absorbed the atmosphere of the traditional men's barber shop. The walls were cheap, simple panelling. Below the plate-glass front window, there was a display cabinet full of ancient tools of the barbering trade; there were all kinds of antique scissors, brushes, combs and razors. I didn't examine them closely, but I took in some details from the rest of the place. Nostalgic big band music from the '40s played softly over the speakers; I recognized a Glenn Miller piece. There were nudie magazines and back numbers of Popular Mechanics piled up on stands in the waiting area, emphasizing the masculinity of the clientele. A collection of framed prints showing pub signs of Olde England adorned the walls. There were also some sports banners and pennants. Intriguingly, there was a calendar on the wall, dated October, 2011, with a colourful picture of a forest in its autumn glory; the page seemed never to have been turned, and maybe it was fanciful of me to think time had stopped for Hank. Nobody would leave a calendar on their wall nearly ten years out of date for just no reason.
Hank had two barber chairs, of old-fashioned design. His work area was lined with mirrors, under which counters supported the tools of his trade: his electric clippers, brushes, combs, scissors and jars of barbicide.
Hank himself was probably in his fifties. He was stout of build, with fairly wide shoulders and big, hairy arms. He wore a traditional, white barber smock over black trousers and well-shined black shoes. He had finished cutting the older man's hair and was now shaving his neck with skill and precision using a straight razor. The two men bantered about the city's hockey team and whether the new coach was up to the challenge of bringing home a cup.
I wasn't interested in sports at all, but I did like the occasional athlete to share my bed.
I had known I was gay since I was ten years old, when I had a crush on my best friend, Mike. When I was fifteen, I made a move on him and he rejected me. He freaked out and told everyone that I was a homo. In a way, being outed spared me the angst of coming out; everyone from then on just knew I was playing for the other team and most of the people who mattered in my life accepted me that way. I never concealed my sexuality thereafter. Mike and I made friends again when he apologized a few years later. I even got a chance to bone him eventually but, for some reason, he didn't make that information public.
The old customer stood up and thanked the barber, walked over to the till and paid for his haircut. He put on his coat and hat and went out into the cold. Hank locked the door behind him and dropped the blinds. Somehow this added to my sense of being contained by the barber shop, like everything else that belonged to Hank.
"Come on down," Hank said, imitating the game show voice. He pointed me to the other chair while he swept up the old man's hair.
I took my seat and sunk into the comfort of the chair. Hank pumped the chair up and a few seconds later, he swooshed a bib over me and asked me how I'd like my hair cut.
My preferred hairstyle was pretty conservative. I normally kept my hair short with the top only a bit longer than the sides, but I had neglected my hair and let it grow for nearly six months; I was looking very shaggy. I described what I wanted and Hank started work on me. He sprayed my hair to comb it out and began taking the inches of extra hair off with scissors. I watched in the mirror for several minutes and it was like watching a sculptor free the shape from a stone.
Hank started a conversation, one of the familiar talents of a good stylist. He quickly sensed my disinterest in sports and moved to weather, and then local and federal politics before he turned the subject to me and my life. I didn't mind talking about myself. I told him I was enrolled in the local university, and studying for my bachelor of arts degree.
"Lots of tail out there at the campus?" He asked me this in a confidential and conspiratorial voice and with a sly smile.
I grinned. "You could say that."
"Do you like the boys or the girls?"
I was surprised by his insight. Sure, I was out, but I was not flamboyant. I didn't "dress gay" or lisp like a stereotype. I didn't have particularly good fashion sense. Most people didn't know I was gay until they got to know me a little, and usually they were surprised.
Anyway, I was out and proud, so I freely confessed I was gay.
"Ah, I thought maybe so," Hank said, not put off, but rather well-pleased at his judgement. "You move with an elegance rare in a straight guy."
I took that for a compliment. I told Dad all those dancing lessons were not for nothing.
As Hank moved around me, and the hair gathered in clumps and piles on the bib and the floor beneath us, I started to notice something odd.
Hank's crotch was positively bulging in the black trousers.
Well, well, what's this? I thought to myself. I was twenty, single and always game for anything. I began examining my barber's image in the mirror with heightened interest. He was handsome after a fashion, though he could do without that thin moustache. His hair was salt-and-pepper black and he had blue eyes. He seemed to be going out of the way to keep his crotch in my eyeline, and my eyes were definitely open. I had my hands on the arms of the chair and Hank's package grazed the knuckles of both my hands several times as he circled my chair like a hunter stalked prey.
"How about you?" I asked, tentatively guessing Hank was gay or at least bi. "You meet a lot of guys here, after all."
He trimmed around my ear and whispered into it. "Only a few really matter."
I was intrigued and whispered back. "What do you do with them?"
