By Sunday morning, the barber knew exactly how much hair to leave.
Mr. Thomas had been cutting Ravi’s hair since Ravi was fourteen.
Now Ravi was forty-three.
“Same?” Thomas asked.
“Same.”
“Little shorter?”
“Same.”
Thomas shook his head.
“You say same every time and then complain when I do same.”
Ravi laughed.
The shop was small.
One mirror. Two chairs. A ceiling fan that made a clicking sound when it turned left.
On Sundays, the newspaper sat folded near the register.
Men came in with sons.
Sons came in alone.
One old man had been coming for so long that Thomas no longer asked his name.
One day Ravi brought his own son.
The boy sat in the chair and looked terrified.
“How much?” he asked.
“How much what?” Thomas said.
“How much will you cut?”
Thomas smiled.
“Enough.”
Ravi watched from the chair.
Thomas trimmed the boy’s hair exactly as he had once trimmed Ravi’s.
“Don’t move.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Your ear is moving.”
“Ears can’t move.”
Thomas looked at Ravi.
“Your son talks too much.”
“He got it from his mother.”
The boy looked at them in the mirror.
“Appa, you used to come here when you were small?”
“Yes.”
“Same uncle?”
“Same uncle.”
The boy stared at Thomas.
“How old are you?”
Thomas laughed.
“Old enough to know you need to stop asking questions.”
On the way home, Ravi’s son said,
“I like that shop.”
Ravi nodded.
“Me too.”
Neither of them mentioned that the next Sunday, Ravi would probably go alone.
That was okay.
Read this when a familiar place has quietly become part of your life.
If this story stayed with you…
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About the Author
I’m the writer behind The Quiet Things, where I write about love, family, memory, healing, regret and the quiet moments people rarely put into words.
One response to “Sunday Haircut”
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