‘Then please could you leave some kind of message on display to explain what’s happening?’
‘I’ll think about it, Connor, okay? But relax: I don’t have any other closures planned.’
I wonder if he knows I was also closed for a couple of days after the accident, while I was still recovering from the shock. I’m guessing not, since he’s never mentioned it.
After he’s gone, I have a few minutes to myself without any other customers. This isn’t unusual for a Monday, which is why I only open for half a day.
I find myself mulling over something Connor said while I was cutting his hair. It stuck in my mind at the time and, now I’ve nothing else to distract me, I can’t stop thinking about it.
He queried when the homeless man I spoke to before had last had a haircut. Not for a good while, from what I could tell. It was long and shaggy; possibly out of choice, but probably out of necessity. Even if he likes it that way, all hair needs cutting from time to time to stay in good condition. Otherwise, split ends become a problem.
If I was living on the streets, getting a haircut wouldn’t be a priority for me either. I doubt I’d be spending any money I’d managed to gather on visiting a barber. And, if I’m brutally honest, I doubt many barbers would be happy to serve an obviously homeless person. They’d be afraid of them not being able to pay at the end, for one thing.
However, as Connor also pointed out, it’s stuff like sleeping in a bed, having clean clothes and getting a haircut that makes you feel human.
There’s a good reason why people visit a barber or hairdresser before a special occasion. Whatever it is – party, wedding, hot date – turning up with freshly cut hair is a confidence boost. It helps you feel like the best version of yourself.
So why can’t I stop thinking about this?
Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? If I really want to change myself in honour of Iris – to try to become someone deserving of being saved by her – I need to make a real difference somehow. Trying to be a nicer person is a start, but it’s not enough.
Here I have a skill I could use to do exactly that. It would barely cost me anything other than my time – and I could make some really needy people feel better about themselves in the process.
Who knows? Having a fresh haircut could even help a homeless person move forward in life, to get out of a rut. I’m probably overstating it, but feeling good about yourself can go a long way. At the very least, it could help someone walk into a public place with their head held high, not feeling like they stick out like a sore thumb quite so much.
I might need to do this.
I’ll definitely have to give it some more thought, to work out the details and so on. I realise it’s born of the desire to make up for past wrongs, like how badly I treated that forlorn figure crashed out on the ground near the barbershop. But before I jump in head first, giddy with good intentions, I need to be sure it’s not a foolish idea.
That said, the prospect of offering free haircuts to the homeless has me feeling strangely excited.
Are those butterflies I feel in my stomach?
Wow. It’s been a while.
CHAPTER 11
One of the problems with being a glass-half-empty type is how quickly negative thoughts can seep in and ruin ideas that you started off feeling excited about.
I know I’m supposed to be trying to change, but it’s not easy. It was never going to be. I knew that from the start – and yet, of course, I was trying to be positive.
It’s 2.14 a.m. on Tuesday. I’m lying wide awake in bed, struggling to clear my mind and get some sleep ahead of the full day back in the barbershop that awaits me in a few hours.
I could really do with a good night’s sleep to ensure I’m fully over whatever it was that made me feel so rubbish over the weekend. Unfortunately, knowing that doesn’t make it happen. If anything, it probably makes it less likely, because of the anxiety and ongoing thought process it generates.
How come I felt so good about the haircuts for the homeless idea earlier – and now it’s all the potential downsides that are occupying my mind? Honestly, they’re like tiny spiders working together to knit a giant gloomy web to snare my positive thoughts.
I’m worrying about all the little details and practicalities. For instance, would having homeless people in the barbershop put off regular customers? I’d be sure to clean and disinfect everything extra thoroughly, of course. Better safe than sorry. But I know how people think.
I’m sure some folk might fear catching head lice, although in reality a homeless person is no more likely to have them than anyone else. Those critters are happy in any hair – clean or dirty – and they’re spread through hair-to-hair contact, not a person’s environment. Kids are by far the worst for having head lice, in my experience, because of how they regularly and closely interact with large numbers of each other.
Then there’s the fear that either no homeless folk would turn up or, conversely, I’d be inundated with too many to handle. And what if people who weren’t actually homeless appeared, claiming they were; how would I know not to get taken advantage of in this way?
I have considered the possibility of going to them, rather than them coming to me, and doing the cuts in the street. However, this is Manchester – not California. It’s usually chilly and wet, especially at this time of year, and I really wouldn’t fancy working outside. My hands would be too cold to use the scissors properly and I’d struggle to do a good job with gloves on. Plus, without electricity, I’d be restricted to using battery-powered clippers, while I’ve always favoured the more bulletproof mains-powered ones.
Having these people inside the shop, sitting on the barber chair after first waiting their turn in the warmth, would all be part of what I was offering. The whole experience would hopefully be humanising, reminding them of the normality of their old life prior to living rough. I’m not convinced cutting their hair in situ, wherever they usually spend their time, would have the same impact.
I probably need to discuss what I’m considering with someone else, which I haven’t done so far. I should run it by Meg in the light of day, tell her my concerns too, and see what she thinks.
That’s a resolution of sorts, right? So now it’s time to stop thinking about it; to clear my mind and get some much-needed sleep.
If only it was that easy.
If only my mind would stop.
Twice already I’ve attempted the technique of relaxing my body bit by bit and trying to clear my head of all thoughts, but tonight even that doesn’t work.
Instead, I focus on breathing slowly and steadily – relaxing – while reluctantly accepting that my brain will continue doing its own thing, regardless. If I worry too much about not getting enough sleep, the very act of doing so will only work against this goal. So I try to chill out, to roll with it, as my thoughts turn to my cousin.
I’m so fortunate to have Meg in my life. I know that better than ever now. As an only child with few close friends, I could have been left feeling utterly alone after first Mum and Dad died and then my marriage fell apart. But instead, I had Meg. We were fairly close anyway, due to proximity and having got along well from a young age. But she was there for me like no one else when I was at my lowest ebb. Even in the midst of our stupid falling-out, which I’ll never allow to happen again, I didn’t forget that.
During times of personal crises, which I’m no stranger to, you need some kind of support network to get you through.
My first true setback in life, which felt like a fully fledged disaster at the time, came when I was eighteen years old. I was halfway through my first term at Leeds University, studying English literature, when I realised that I’d made a terrible decision and student life wasn’t for me.
This was an incredibly hard thing to admit to myself, never mind my parents. But after weeks of feeling uncomfortable, out of my depth and plain unhappy, the roof finally caved in following a long, boozy night out with my then flatmates. I ended up a
lone in A&E, having picked a fight with a bloke twice my size after being split up from everyone else.
I’ll never forget calling home from a payphone in the early hours, sobbing my heart out and pleading with Mum and Dad to come and get me, which of course they did. I slept most of the way home in the car and they didn’t once ask me to explain myself. Naturally, we did have a chat the next day, upon which I broke down and admitted how deeply unhappy I was in Leeds.
‘Is it the course, your flatmates or something else?’ I remember Dad asking me as the three of us gathered over a brew around the kitchen table. ‘Because nothing’s written in stone. There are always changes that can be made.’
‘It’s not one thing in particular,’ I replied. ‘It’s pretty much everything. I know you wanted this for me, but … maybe I’m not cut out for university.’
‘Oh, love, don’t you worry about what we want,’ Mum said. ‘Nothing’s more important to either of us than you being happy. You’re a bright lad. You know that as well as we do. If this isn’t the right path for you, we’ll find one that is – together. And I have no worries whatsoever that you’ll do brilliantly, regardless. I believe in you, son. We both do. Mark my words, it’ll all work out for the best, one way or another.’
They didn’t let me drop out straight away, which I found frustrating. They gently persuaded me to return to uni for a bit to think over the situation. With hindsight, though, it was only right that I took a few weeks to weigh up my options rather than making a snap decision. Otherwise, I’d have probably ended up looking back after a while and wondering if I’d made a mistake.
Instead, when I did eventually drop out about a month later, I knew it was definitely the right move. And I did so with my head held high, saying a proper goodbye to my flatmates and so on, rather than skulking off with my tail between my legs.
‘University just wasn’t for me,’ I told anyone who asked. And a lot did to start with, but soon the memory faded and the question rarely came up any more.
I’d like to say I became a barber straight afterwards, knowing that had been my destiny all along. It would be neater that way, wouldn’t it? However, it took me a few years to get there, doing various other jobs along the way, from washing dishes in a hotel kitchen to telesales.
You could either say I fell into barbering by accident or I was led there by destiny. It all depends on how you look at it, like so much in life. What happened was I went to get a haircut while in between jobs, saw a HELP WANTED sign and, desperate for cash, offered my services on the spot.
‘Do you know anything about cutting hair?’ Riccardo, the owner of the barbershop, asked me in a thick Italian accent.
I told him I’d cut several of my friends’ hair and never had any complaints. What I failed to mention was that this had been during my brief stint at university and it had only ever been a case of using clippers all over, rather than any actual cutting with scissors.
Riccardo was a short, barrel-chested chap in his mid-fifties, clean-shaven but with a permanent five o’clock shadow and a bushy head of grey curls. He liked to give the impression of being bad-tempered and irate, frequently raising his voice to complain about topics like the British weather and local politics, but it was an act. Anyone who really knew him – not least those like me who he employed – saw through the brash façade to the heart of gold beneath.
Riccardo taught me everything I know about cutting hair and running your own business. I worked under him for eight years, from my early days as a wet-behind-the-ears trainee to eventually becoming his right-hand man, entrusted with the extremely important task of cutting his hair.
It was only when he retired, to move back to his beloved Sicily, that he admitted seeing through my initial bravado. Chuckling into a glass of red wine at his leaving do, he said: ‘I knew full well you had no experience of cutting hair when you started with me.’
‘How?’ I asked. ‘I really thought I had you fooled. And why did you take me on?’
‘You were bloody awful to begin with, Luke, but I liked your spirit and you worked for peanuts. I didn’t need you to have experience. I wanted someone I could mould.’
‘You could have told me,’ I replied. ‘I worked my arse off at the start to make out like I knew what I was doing.’
He thumped me on the back with the palm of his hand and chuckled some more. ‘Exactly. Why would I do anything to stop that?’
I haven’t seen Riccardo for years, although we still send each other a card and catch-up letter every Christmas. He was passionate about the art of being a barber. ‘You have to treat every haircut like it’s the last one you’ll ever do,’ he used to say. ‘Never rush. Never settle for second best. Be proud of your work and your skills. You’re an artist, sculpting with hair. The day you forget this is the day you should hang up your scissors.’
If I’m honest, I didn’t think I’d stay longer than a few weeks when I first started working for him. But what can I say? The man inspired me. His passion rubbed off on me and, before long, I could never imagine myself doing anything else. My brief time at university felt like a distant memory. Meanwhile, Mum and Dad, bless them, were delighted to see me happy.
I bet lots of other parents would have given their child a hard time for doing what I did. Having been considered a ‘gifted student’ at school, I could easily have faced accusations of wasting my intelligence and throwing away opportunities. But that never happened. Not once. They supported me all the way, including when I decided to go it alone and set up my own business.
Honestly, I couldn’t have wished for better parents. The problem was that this made dealing with their untimely deaths even harder.
CHAPTER 12
‘Heavy night?’ my cousin asks as she stands up to greet me the following lunchtime.
‘Not in the way you’re thinking,’ I reply, removing my coat and hat before taking a seat opposite her in the café around the corner from her shop. She suggested we meet here after I texted her earlier asking for a chat. ‘I had problems sleeping, that’s all. My mind was racing and I couldn’t switch off.’
‘I’m only joking,’ Meg replies with a wink. ‘You don’t look that bad. How are you feeling? Better, I hope. Or shouldn’t I have given you that hug just now?’
‘No, don’t worry. I doubt I’m contagious any more. I’m loads better than when you called in on Sunday.’
‘Good. So what’s the problem? What was on your mind that kept you awake?’
‘Let’s get some food sorted first,’ I say. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’
Having scanned the menu, I order a flat white coffee and a club sandwich, while Meg opts for sparkling water and a tuna melt panini.
As we’re waiting for these, my cousin squints at me across the table. ‘You’ve not been dreaming about her again, have you?’
I’m tempted to ask who she means, despite knowing full well it’s Iris, but bearing in mind what I want to discuss with her, I bite my tongue.
‘Hardly,’ I reply. ‘I’d have been glad of any dreams, to be honest, even that weird recurring one I’ve told you about with the secret annexe and swimming pool.’
‘Oh, I remember you mentioning that. Do you still have it?’
‘Yes, frequently. When I actually get to sleep, that is. I don’t think I managed to grab more than a couple of hours last night.’
She winks at me, slipping back into our banter of old now that we’ve properly reconciled. ‘Hence the bags under your eyes.’
‘Yeah, exactly. Thanks for that.’
‘What about Rita, Iris’s aunt?’ Meg asks.
I raise an eyebrow. ‘No, I’ve definitely not been dreaming about her.’
Meg chuckles. ‘I mean, have you heard from her again?’
I’m confused about where this is going. ‘No, should I have?’
‘I thought you said the two of you got along well. That you went for a drink together.’
‘And? If you’re trying to suggest I
might be interested in her romantically, you’re barking up the wrong tree. She’s old enough to be my mother, Meg, and not my type at all.’
‘I know that,’ my cousin says, ‘but she used to run her own hair salon, right? And she doesn’t exactly seem ready to hang up her scissors yet. She’s bursting with energy.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘I thought the two of you might make a good team, professionally. A woman’s touch would definitely not go amiss at the barbershop; maybe she’d be able to convince you to smarten the place up.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I reply. ‘I work alone – you know that. Why would I take on anyone else? And Luke’s is perfect as it is, thank you very much. No smartening required.’
Meg holds up her hands. ‘Fine, whatever you say. So what did you want to talk about? I hope you don’t need to borrow money, because I’m flat broke.’
‘When have I ever asked you for money? The cheek of it.’
Meg giggles. ‘You’re so easy to wind up, Luke. Go on, what can I do for you?’
‘I want your opinion on an idea I’m chewing over.’
Our drinks arrive, courtesy of a heavily tattooed woman in her mid-twenties with dreadlocks and more rings in her ears than I can count on the spot. ‘Here you are,’ she says, flashing a pretty smile.
‘Do you ever think the Northern Quarter is becoming a caricature of itself?’ I whisper across the table to Meg.
‘In what way?’
‘Because the alternative has become the norm, like that waitress. I’d quite like to be served by a preppy student in brogues and chinos once in a while, but there’s little chance of that here.’
My cousin shakes her head and takes a sip from her glass. ‘I thought you were trying to be more positive, you old grump.’
I shrug. ‘Fair point. Now you mention it, as part of my bid to improve myself and to try to do something more meaningful with my life, I’ve come up with a slightly hare-brained scheme, if you’ll excuse the pun.’
Meg rolls her eyes. Her expression soon changes, though, as I explain my haircuts for the homeless concept.
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