How to Save a Life

by S. D. Robertson

  I realised years later that Dad had set the whole thing up, even though he never admitted to doing so. It was a typical Dad-style stunt. He was always great fun like that: a friend as much as a father to me, particularly when I was little. Don’t get me wrong, Mum was brilliant too. She always had a big smile on her face and a wonderful ability to see the silver lining in even the gloomiest of situations. They were both always on hand as playmates, so I never especially minded being an only child. I think Dad often stands out in my memory because he had such a great sense of humour. He was forever making me and Mum laugh.

  They were both such warm, happy people. I wish I’d ended up more like them.

  As for the news story that landed me that front page, it was a purely fictional affair – as April Fools’ Day articles are wont to be. The line was that I’d supposedly walked into the café on my own, ordered the biggest ice cream they’d ever heard of, eaten it and then confessed to having no money. I’m sure it didn’t take the paper’s readers too long to twig it was a joke.

  All the same, it was a great tale to tell my friends when I got home. I took the newspaper into school and my teacher even read it out to the class. Being as gullible as I was at that age, my pals were gobsmacked to hear about the autograph incident. I think for a while they genuinely believed I’d become famous over the holidays.

  Now I find myself on the front page again as an adult – and this time it’s in Friday’s Manchester Evening News, which does actually feel like quite a big deal to me. Nora’s article isn’t on the front, but one of the pictures of me is there with a taster headline, guiding people to read all about it on page seven, where there’s a prominent page lead.

  I agreed for her to come and interview me on Monday morning, four days after she’d first called in, when the barbershop would usually have been closed. This meant no customers getting in the way of our chat – although, of course, a couple did try their luck despite the CLOSED sign and I did my best not to bite their heads off. It also meant more natural light for the pictures, which the photographer that Nora brought along with her – a fellow freelance called Rudy – was keen on.

  Nora had initially suggested turning up to the next free cuts session. But in light of the poor turnout last time, I told her I was keen to hold that after publication, so the article would hopefully promote it. She agreed and, sure enough, there’s a decent plug for next Monday’s planned session in the piece. As I look at this, it both excites and terrifies me all at once. My major concern now is whether I’ll be able to keep up with demand.

  Relax, I tell myself, sitting alone in the barbershop just before midday, waiting for my next customer. Stop thinking like a glass-half-empty person. This is amazing free publicity. And yet, even as this thought occurs to me, that old negative voice in my head is chattering away in the background, saying I look ridiculous in the photos: my cheeks too flushed and my teeth not white enough.

  It is a really good article, I must admit. It’s more or less exactly what we discussed it would be, focusing primarily on the free haircuts, while still acknowledging the impact of the scaffolding incident and the role it played in leading me to this place. Nora had convinced me that a brief mention of this would give the story greater depth and increased human interest appeal. So I told her an edited version of the truth, skipping the part about trying to turn myself from pessimist to optimist, and focusing on how Iris’s death had inspired me to do something meaningful.

  I’m accurately quoted in the article as saying: ‘I decided to put my barbering skills to good use somehow. This is about me trying to help the needy in my own small way, paying tribute to Iris and her plans to be a volunteer doctor in Africa, which she tragically died before realising.

  ‘I only got to know her very briefly, but she was clearly a wonderful woman with such a drive to help others. I had to do something in her honour.’

  My mobile rings and I see it’s my cousin. She rang earlier, having already got hold of the paper, sparking me to pop over the road to the nearest newsagent to grab myself a copy.

  ‘Well?’ she asks as soon as I pick up. ‘Have you got one?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘I’m pleased.’

  ‘You don’t sound it. You’re on the blooming front page, Luke. How often in their life can someone say that?’

  I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s my second time, assuming she doesn’t remember the April Fools’ Day article all those years earlier. She no doubt heard the story as a girl, but since she wasn’t there when it happened, I’m not surprised it’s slipped her mind.

  ‘I’m really pleased with the article, Meg. Thanks for helping to arrange it.’

  ‘That’s better.’ She chuckles down the line. ‘You still don’t sound that happy about it, though. What’s up? Are you embarrassed by the attention?’

  ‘No, not really. It’ll be someone else’s turn in the limelight tomorrow. If anything, my main concern now is that we’ll be swamped next Monday and I’ll struggle to cope. Are you still able to help?’

  ‘Definitely. I only wish I could be more useful to you and actually get involved with the cutting. I mean, I could have a go if you like, with the clippers or whatever, but—’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll manage and it won’t come to that,’ I say, silently horrified at the idea of Meg making a hash of some poor guy’s first haircut in ages.

  Changing the subject, I ask about the drink she went for with Ciara, her psycho ex-girlfriend, in return for her help arranging the window banner for the barbershop. The meet-up was scheduled for last night.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ she replies.

  ‘Come on, Meg. You have to give me a bit more than that.’

  ‘Well, things started off all right, but before I was halfway through my G&T, she made a couple of comments that really sounded like she’d been stalking me on social media.’

  ‘What kind of comments?’

  ‘Oh, I really don’t want to go into it, Luke. Let’s say she knew a bit too much about what I’ve been up to over the past few months. It rang alarm bells; I made my excuses and left.’

  ‘No chance of any further fancy banners, then?’ I ask as a gentle wind-up.

  ‘Definitely not. And don’t say I told you so.’

  ‘As if I would,’ I reply with my tongue firmly in my cheek.

  CHAPTER 17

  The following Monday evening comes along in a flash, as does a second article, in the latest edition of Big Issue North.

  My picture’s not on the front page on this occasion, but the piece they run on the inside is longer and more feature-like, using different photos. I’ve fallen on my feet getting Nora’s help, I realise, since this article is as accurate as the first and provides a really good plug for my free haircuts. Plus there’s the fact that homeless folk are the ones who sell this magazine, meaning the information is highly likely to disseminate to the right people one way or another.

  It was Nora herself who rang to tell me about this second article being published. At the time, she asked if I’d mind her coming along tonight to see how things turned out. I said that would be fine as long as it was only her and not the photographer, explaining I didn’t want to discourage any folk unsure about whether or not to come inside, like the pair we encountered last time.

  ‘The sight of someone snapping shots with a big professional camera might be enough to put some people off,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, fine. But you won’t mind me taking a few subtle shots with my phone, right? I’ll check with them first, of course.’

  ‘No, that shouldn’t be a problem,’ I told her, not wishing to sound contrary after she’d come good on all of her promises so far.

  She and Meg arrive a couple of minutes apart. They chat with each other while I get things ready, trying to hide how anxious I feel. As much as I tell myself to focus on the positives, it’s hard when I’m so nervous and don’t want to reveal this fact to Nora in particular.r />
  ‘Luke,’ Meg says, drawing my attention to the door, where I see a rangy, scruffy-looking bloke with a mop of curly ginger hair. We race each other to greet him and, five minutes later, Michael is wrapped in a gown in my barber chair, shoulders covered in hair cuttings, chatting away about how he ended up on the streets.

  He talks about it so matter-of-factly, his descent from having ‘the odd flutter on the gee-gees’ to being made redundant and developing a full-blown gambling addiction that lost him his home and family. It’s shocking, as is the fact he’s only twenty-eight but looks a decade older.

  You can tell from the way Michael speaks – the language he uses – that he’s a chap with a decent education. His life could have turned out a whole lot better had he made a few different decisions along the way. I find myself wishing I could offer him something more substantial than a haircut. And then the smile on his face when I finish, show him the back using the hand mirror and ask if he’d like me to style it with some gel – that gives me such a great feeling. To my surprise, I even fear I might cry for an instant – happy tears – as he shakes my hand and thanks me for making him feel human again.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he says. ‘I haven’t sat in a barbershop like this for goodness knows how long. I haven’t had a proper haircut in forever. And it feels great. It’s like stepping back into my old life for a few minutes; resampling normality. You’re a star, Luke the barber, and this is very much appreciated.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, Michael,’ I say, trying to ignore the lump in my throat. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’

  And then I’m on to the next guy, who walked in two minutes earlier, as three more men arrive. I’ll have to work quickly to stay on top of things.

  Meg catches my eye in the mirror and winks at me. I nod and smile back before cracking on.

  By the time I’ve finished a couple more cuts, there’s quite a queue forming. All the seats in the waiting area are full and there are already two more people standing. This level of busy is nothing I haven’t dealt with by myself before. However, I’ve never previously offered free cuts supported by two prominent press plugs. So how am I supposed to know which way things will go from here? This could be my peak time or merely a warm-up.

  Don’t panic, I tell myself. Get on with it, one cut at a time, like you always do.

  At least people are turning up this evening. Plus Meg’s doing a great job of keeping everyone happy while they wait. There are already too many people present for her to be offering out brews, but she’s greeting folk when they enter and constantly keeping some chit-chat on the go. This is helped by the fact that a lot of the clients already know each other. I’m pleasantly surprised to see Nora lending a hand too, in between asking people for comments after I’ve cut their hair. It’s all very informal – not pushy in the slightest.

  About forty minutes into the session, though, the mood starts to change. It’s really hectic now – uncomfortably so. I’m going full throttle, keeping the cuts as quick and straightforward as possible, and yet people are cottoning on to the fact that I’ll struggle to get around everyone. I can hear the mutterings, but I try not to be fazed, pushing on.

  Harder to ignore is a row about who’s next, thankfully settled by Meg and Nora. Then a few minutes later, while Nora is outside taking photos, two blokes standing in line behind me start to jostle, arguing with each other about a can of lager one claims the other stole from him earlier.

  ‘Come on, guys,’ Meg says. ‘Calm it down, please.’

  Putting on my most authoritative voice, as loud and deep as I can manage, I add: ‘Any scrapping and you’ll be out of here, gents, no second chances.’

  As I turn to them to say this, I recognise one of the jostling pair. It’s the skinny guy with the jagged scar across his cheek, who I met when I was first trying to spread the word on the streets last month. The bloke who wouldn’t tell me his name. He turns to me with a sneer. ‘You’re going to kick me out, are you, Luke? You and whose army?’

  His words remind me I’m not exactly well equipped to deal with any kind of trouble at one of these sessions. I look over at Meg and our eyes meet, clearly both thinking the same thing.

  ‘Don’t be a dickhead, Moxie,’ a familiar-sounding voice from further down the queue pipes up. ‘There are plenty of us here that’ll help him turf you out if you can’t behave yourself. This guy is trying to do something good. Calm down and let him get on with it. Otherwise, get lost.’

  Several others voice their agreement with the speaker, who turns out to be Tommy: the book-reading bloke from outside the supermarket, who inadvertently inspired this whole idea. He nods at me and I smile back to show my appreciation. Meanwhile, Moxie – who clearly does know Tommy, despite what he told me when I was trying to track him down previously – backs down and does as he’s told, calmness thankfully resuming.

  Shortly after this, Nora shuffles her way past the queue to get back inside. To my confusion, she has an angry-looking Rita – Iris’s aunt – in tow.

  ‘Rita,’ I say. ‘What are you—’

  ‘Can we have a word, please?’

  ‘Now’s not a great time,’ I say. ‘As you can see, I’m pretty swamped.’

  Arms firmly crossed over her chest, Rita shoots daggers at me. ‘We can do this here, in front of everyone, or outside. Your choice. Either way, we’re doing it now.’

  This doesn’t sound good. I ask Meg to hold the fort for a minute before I follow Rita outside to the sound of various sighs and groans from those waiting in line. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say in a loud voice, hoping it’s the truth.

  Out on the pavement, Rita stomps a short distance away from the barbershop before turning to face me and immediately letting rip. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ she asks in a tone reminiscent of the way she spoke to me after her niece’s funeral.

  ‘Sorry?’ I reply. ‘What’s going on? Am I missing something? I thought we were on good terms now.’

  ‘How dare you use Iris’s name to push your business in the press!’

  ‘Is that what this is about?’ I say. ‘Because that’s not what I’m trying to do at all. I only—’

  ‘What right have you got to talk publicly about my niece? You barely knew her. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it; nor could her mum and dad. To think I came to apologise to you after what I said at the funeral reception. I was obviously right to send you packing then. Using her legacy for your own personal gain. How could you? Honestly, I’m fuming.’

  ‘I see that, Rita, but can I have a chance to explain? This is nothing to do with me trying to plug my barbershop in the media. I’m offering my services totally free of charge. I’m genuinely trying to give something back to the community.’

  Rita vents some more of her fury before finally allowing me to try to clarify the situation.

  I recount how my first attempt at offering free cuts for the homeless fell flat without publicity, in contrast to tonight’s big turnout. Apologising for not running the press coverage by her and the rest of Iris’s family – which I now acknowledge as a stupid oversight – I plead with her to believe me that the whole idea truly was inspired by the wonderful nature of her niece.

  ‘I can’t tell you how many times I’ve relived that night in my mind,’ I say, ‘wondering if there’s anything I could have done differently that might have saved her. If I could go back in time and change things so she survived and I died, I’d do so in a heartbeat. It eats me up why I’m still here and she’s gone, when she had so much more to offer the world than I do. And how am I dealing with that? By trying to be a better person – someone more like Iris. That’s what tonight is all about, I promise you. Nothing more.’

  She takes some convincing, but eventually Rita starts to soften. Just as I seem to be getting somewhere with her, a fraught Meg bursts out of the barbershop. ‘Oh, there you are,’ she calls to me. ‘Are you coming back? Things are getting a bit chaotic in here.’

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sp; ‘Um, yeah, I’ll be with you in a sec,’ I say.

  Turning to Rita again, I add: ‘I really need to get back. Is that all right?’

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Maybe I got this wrong. Maybe. Although you definitely should have run it by us first.’

  ‘I know that now.’

  ‘Good.’

  A few minutes later, once I’m back in the shop, doing my best to calm everyone down and catch up, Rita walks back through the door with a glamorous, petite blonde woman at her side.

  I fear she’s about to cause another scene, but instead she announces: ‘This is my good friend Sharon. She gave me a lift here tonight after my car broke down. She also happens to be an excellent hairdresser, who used to work with me and, luckily, keeps her cutting equipment in the boot. Luke, I noticed you had two empty chairs and lots of customers, so I thought perhaps you might appreciate some help.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I reply, gobsmacked. ‘That would be amazing.’

  The waiting homeless folk clearly agree, as they let out a cheer.

  The two new additions get right down to it and make a huge difference. Although they come from a primarily women’s hairdressing background, it’s clear they’ve both cut plenty of men’s hair too; they do a cracking job.

  Sharon, who’s in her late thirties, is pretty quiet while she works. She chats a little here and there, but her primary focus seems to be on getting the job done.

  Rita, on the other hand, is a revelation. A total chatterbox throughout, her original anger is nowhere in sight as her vibrant personality and infectious laugh lift the whole mood of the barbershop. It might not be my usual style of running things, but I can’t deny it works a treat – and she gets plenty of cutting done too. There’s no sign of any more trouble or unrest among those in the queue. She’s so bubbly and optimistic. On reflection, I think that’s what it is about her that reminds me of my mother, because she was the same way. Plus Rita seems extremely efficient and, as I just discovered for the second time, she can be fiercely protective of her family and has no qualms about speaking her mind. These were also qualities Mum had.