I always suspected that my dad’s barbershop was haunted. Heck, he used to make that claim himself. A lot of customers, particularly the old-timers, had their own little superstitions, favorite chairs, and days they avoided coming in for a haircut. My dad, the barber, was the worst of all, though. The man would only use one particular brand of scissors and another for electric razors. He used regular straight razors a good bit, too, except for one antique blade with a pearl handle that he refused to handle.
Most curious of all; dad would always leave the last chair in the corner empty. No matter how packed the shop got, no one would be seated in that chair. He never told me why, only that it was tradition.
Dad passed away a few months back. I found him at the barbershop, slumped in one of the chairs, looking for all of the world like he was sleeping. It was never my plan to get into the family business. As of last spring, I was still in college working on my degree. But when dad died, somebody had to take care of the family so I got the certifications I needed and started cutting hair. Luckily, dad prepared me for years growing up and I didn’t scare away any of the old customers. Not at first. However, I noticed some of the guys looking a little nervous when they came in. Eventually, a few of the regulars began dropping off. I decided to ask Bill, one of my dad’s favorite clients, to hang out after work at the shop one day so I could ask his advice.
“What am I doing wrong, Bill?” I asked. “What’s causing folks to leave?”
I was sweeping up for the day, the shop closed and quiet. Bill sat in his favorite chair sipping a beer.
“Well, Joey, I’m glad you asked me to stay late,” he replied. “I’ve been meaning to have a word with you. The reason you’re scaring the old-timers off is simple: you’re not respecting your dad’s rules.”
I bristled at this a bit and leaned my broom against the wall. “Are you saying I’m not doing a good job running my dad’s shop?”
“No, no,” Bill said, hands held up in a calming gesture. “You’re doing great with cutting hair and you’re personable and everybody likes you. It’s just…”
“What?”
“Kid, you’re not following the rules. You’re mixing brands, using all of the chairs.”
“Ah, the superstition stuff.”
Bill stood up. “It might sound silly to you but traditions meant a lot to your dad. To all of us. The old guys, at least. We’d just like to see you respect that.”
I nodded and told Bill I’d consider it. We shook hands and he left, locking the door behind him at my request. I went back to cleaning up but Bill’s words stuck with me. Dad’s favorite straight razor, the one with the pearl handle, was sitting in its usual place of honor next to one of the mirrors in the corner. It was starting to gather dust since I wasn’t polishing it as much as my dad did. Or at all. I picked up the razor and opened it. The blade still looked as sharp as ever; I suppressed a chill. It felt like the temperature in the barbershop dropped by ten degrees in as many seconds.
The lights flickered. I heard a squeak and looked in the corner. The last chair, the one my dad always left empty, was facing me. I was positive that I’d left it turned towards the counter and mirror earlier that day.
“Maybe the place really is haunted,” I muttered, closing the razor and replacing it on its shelf.
I’d meant the line as a joke but it came out as almost a question. The barbershop was warming up again but I began to feel like I wasn’t alone. I considered leaving and skipping my usual closing routine. That would be admitting that I was afraid, though…that my dad’s superstitions were more than comfortable little rituals. I went back to cleaning up, polishing the mirrors in front of each chair. When I reached the last chair in the corner, the special one, I felt a wild urge rise up in me.
I sat down. Immediately, the temperature in the room plummeted. I saw my breath come out in a cold, white cloud. There was a tinkling sound; I turned to see the pearl-handled razor vibrating on its shelf.
Joey.
The voice sounded familiar–terribly, impossibly familiar. I swiveled my chair until I was facing the mirror. The lights flickered again. In the flash of darkness, I saw my dad’s reflection in the mirror standing behind me. Except he didn’t look entirely like my dad. His face was stretched, blurry, constantly shifting and reforming. After a moment, it clarified and looked like my dad only…younger. Much younger. He looked like he was my age. I saw his reflection shimmer and turn to look at something towards the front of the shop. Suddenly, I could hear a warble that slowly crystallized into my dad’s voice. Just like his reflection, the voice was decades younger than the last time I saw him.
“...sorry but we are closed,” I heard him say.
I glanced at the razor on the shelf. It was shaking like a box of alarm clocks. I realized that I was shaking, too. I swallowed a scream. The room was growing colder by the moment; I turned back to the mirror to see frost collecting around the edges. My dad’s reflection was still looking away towards the front of the shop. I changed the angle of the chair and saw who he was talking to: a man, very young and skinny, dressed in a moth-eaten hoodie. While I watched, the man pulled out a knife. I saw his mouth move but couldn’t hear the words. Still, it was easy enough to guess that this was some kind of robbery, albeit a pathetic one.
“Get out,” I heard my dad say. “Just get out of here.”
I saw the handle of the pearl-grip razor poking out of my dad’s white barber coat. The burglar, barely more than a teen, moved suddenly but dad was quicker. It was hard to follow but there was a spurt of blood that made me duck. I poked my head back up and realized it was only the phantom reflection of blood as seen through the mirror. Now there was a new image, my dad in his white jacket stained red, kneeling over the man that attacked him. Dad was holding the young guy’s hand, the burglar’s throat ripped open by the razor. The man kept trying to speak but only blood came out. Dad was crying.
In an instant, the mirror was back to normal and the shop was warm again. I stood up, shaking.
“It was self-defense,” I said. “It wasn’t dad’s fault.”
But I knew that wouldn’t have mattered to my dad. He was a good man, kind. Even if he was justified in taking a life to protect himself, the guilt would weigh heavy on him. All of dad’s superstitions, his respect for the razor, and leaving a chair open, clicked. The seat was a sign of respect for the man who died there on the floor all of those years ago. And the razor, used as a weapon, could never cut hair again. But he wouldn’t throw it away. Dad would keep it as a reminder of one of the worst nights of his life.
I took a deep breath and looked back at the chair in the corner. It was facing the counter again and the razor with the pearl handle was still. Instead of running out of the barbershop screaming, I went back to cleaning up. I finally understood my dad’s superstitions and I’d be sure to honor them in the future. The shop was haunted but as long as it was treated with respect, I knew it would stay quiet and the regulars would come back.
----
Comments