A beat. EZRA, mid-twenties, steps just inside the doorway. He wears a wrinkled button-down and carries a helmet under one arm. His hair is long, unkempt, but not fashionably so—more like it has been forgotten.
Someone died.
I’ll leave the middle chair warm.
What if I don’t want to recognize myself?
The lights fade to black.
I believe a good haircut is three things. One: it listens to the head, not the trend. Two: it leaves enough to hold onto. Three: it lets a man look in the mirror and recognize himself again.
That’ll be seventeen dollars.
The lights rise on the same space. The barber chairs are now empty, save for a single folded apron on the armrest of the middle chair. The air smells of talc and antiseptic.
You left a little length at the crown.