Getting a Trim
Getting a Trim
| John Staley
Her straight razor slid slowly up my neck. The palm of her other hand pressed on my chin pulling the skin of my throat taut. My only view was the two-toned façade of the rosette ceiling tiles. Glancing up out of the corner of my eye I could see the intense focus in hers. As Lizzo expressed her momentary requirements over the shop speakers, Carla glanced down at me with a smile.
I met Carla a week prior while walking Goose, a ten-pound white fawn Italian Greyhound. The leash yanked toward the doorway, and the two met on the floor, Carla pulling up her basketball shorts in a squat as her high top sneakers squeaked on the shop hardwood toward their embrace. Her wide, gap-toothed smile stretched across her brown, cherubic face, framed by a Caesar cut and Napoleon Dynamite glasses. Goose pawed at the gold chain draped outside her oversized Space Jam T-shirt. Carla’s royal blue fingernails and gold rings glided up and down Goose’s up-stretched body wriggling uncontrollably. Their affection was undeniable. They were old friends.
Now, on day twelve of this East Coast vacation, I asked,
“You do beard trims?”
Carla glanced at the clock. “Yeah, I can get you in at 12:30, and then not until 2:00.”
“In thirty?”
“I gotchu,” she said, pinching the shoulders of her shirt, whipping it back.
“Cool. See you then.”
I walked three doors down and five flights up. Once inside, I wet-wiped the streets of Hell’s Kitchen off the dog’s paws and changed my shirt. It had rained, but it was warm. The city has a way of sweating with you. The air was humid and unmoving, the only breeze from the people walking past you on the street. New York thrives on contrast. The weather is no different. Cooled off and cleaned up—a slight reprieve is necessary in this heat. I head back down to find Carla slouched outside the shop, one arm over the back of the bench. Her island of calm sat untouched by the bustling sea of the city. Carla stared at the sky exhaling a thick plume that disappeared into the heavy air above. In the same spot, the morning before, a businessman sat with AirPods in, his right hand in gyan mudra as his left held his iPhone. In a city full of cacophony, finding Nirvana isn’t easy. Breathe in. Breathe out. I guess you grab a little peace where you can.
“You ready for me?”
She leapt up, blowing a cloud into the air, and led me to the first chair by the door.
“You can see the line,” I said, motioning to the hair growth on my cheeks and neck.
“Just clean it up and a number three on the beard,” I added, referring to the length of the guard on her clippers. There wasn’t much conversation between us, as I couldn’t talk with a razor against my throat, but there was plenty of shit-talking banter amongst the other barbers.
“He wants a second chance,” said the barber to my left. “Says he ain’t like dat wit customers normally. I can’t give him no second chance.”
Apparently, a rookie barber didn’t handle a “service opportunity” all that well and wasn’t being invited back to the shop.
Other bits and pieces I picked up included:
“Fries? Of course I want fries. Now he calls about fries?!!!”
And:
“Dave’s gonna need an OnlyFans after this.”
Carla explained, “Man, we ain’t always like this. Everything’s got a backstory. Everything. We ain’t always assholes. Full-time barbers, part-time assholes.” Everyone burst out laughing in agreement.
She finished by placing the fleshy part of her hand between her index finger and thumb right below my lower lip, her hand tipped up to cover my mouth and nose.
“Aftershave,” she said.
She sprayed my neck with what looked like a Windex bottle.
“Sometimes it burns, sometimes it don’t. Wipe it off if you want.”
She brushed off the rest of the hair on my neck and whipped the chair cloth away. I followed her to the counter, dipped my card for $22.50, and gave her a ten-dollar bill for the best beard trim of my life. I got caught in an awkward handshake I did my best to recover from.
“Thanks. Goose and I will see you soon.”
My cheeks, now freshly shaved, were able to catch the midday rains of Midtown as I set off in search of a New York bagel.
