That sounds stupid when you say it out loud.

Another snip. More hair falls.

You’re holding your helmet like it’s a bomb. And you sat in the middle chair. First-timers always sit in the middle. They think it’s neutral. It’s not. The middle chair is for men who can’t decide what they want.

Then you came to the wrong place.

That’ll be seventeen dollars.

He picks up the folded apron from the armrest. Shakes it out. Holds it for a moment—like a man remembering a handshake.

The clippers move in steady, careful strokes. The sound is rhythmic—almost musical. The light through the dusty window shifts.