It was one summer afternoon when I decided to take a haircut.
True to form, I needed it. After what I thought endless night-life gigs with my band, I finally earned a job, one that promotes “a decent haircut” as a rule in professionalism. And I have to follow it so that I’d fit in their world.
I haven’t visited a barber for eight months now for I was busy eking out a living with my band; for one brief moment, I thought earning money while doing something I love would be constant—until they decided to call it quits. Needless to say, being long-haired was part of my lifestyle.
I went to the local barber shop owned by a man I know as Mang Joey. It was where my father used to take me every time my hair would touch the back of my ears and my nape. That was when I was a kid and Mang Joey’s on his thirties. My frequent visits to Mang Joey’s shop made me witness his aging, and he, in turn, saw me grow.
When I arrived, I noticed changes. The huge signboard on the roof that says “Joey’s Barber Shop” was now gone. At first I doubted if it’s still open; good thing the glass-door was still there with the yellow plastic sign “Come in. We’re open.”
I pushed the door open, entered, and heard the glass-door hissing as it slowly closed by itself. A familiar ambiance was doused on me, despite the conspicuous smears of difference: strings of cobwebs hang on wall corners and a shrine I think is for the Sto. Niño but the idol is absent. But there’s still the two black-leathered barber chairs resting beside a small table with barber’s tools, and also the wall-sized mirrors placed facing each other, thereby reflecting each other. I felt sweat on my temples. I looked around and saw a hole in the far-left corner of the room; proof of the air conditioner that once provided ventilation.
“Hello?” I called out. “Mang Joey?”
“Wait,” a familiar, raspy voice answered. It came from the room in the back which serves as Mang Joey’s private quarters.
Moments later, Mang Joey entered the shop. He gave me a welcoming look which was noticeable despite his drippy eyelids and wrinkled face. His hair has remaining hints of black, but not quite balding. His smile was somewhat weak—his lips merely curving, perhaps shying away from a grin. Mang Joey was known as a heavy nga-nga chewer.
Good thing he remembered me. “You’ve been gone for quite some time,” he said. “Usually you’re here once a month.”
“Those were the college days,” I replied. “Imprisonment.”
“And I guess freedom arrived, eh?” he was looking at my neck-length hair. We laughed.
I sat on the barber’s chair and saw my reflection going through infinity as my eyes met the wall-sized mirror in my front. Mang Joey took a small, white, cloak-like garment and wrapped it around my neck, covering my body. I noticed his slow movement: the way he spread out the cloth and gathered his tools. I’m not used to see him like this. I know him as a fast barber; fast, but precise. I guess time really did pass.
“How’ your dad?” he asked.
“He’s at the province,” I answered. He powered the electric razor, and its whirring stung my ear. A few seconds later, he turned it off. He made a clacking sound with his tongue. “Trim first, of course,” he whispered. I pretended not to have heard him. That action made me wonder if he’s still up for the job. He took a pair of scissors and a small black comb and started trimming my neck-length hair. He did it slowly as if being careful. The mirrors on the walls allowed me to see that he’s doing it right, though not the way he used to.
“What made you take a haircut?” he asked.
“Professionalism. I was hired on an advertising company,” I answered.
“So what made you forget to take a haircut?”
“I used to be in a band.”
“Oh, you play the guitar, right? I’ve seen you guys perform. You sure do have talent.”
I didn’t answer. For some reason, I felt nostalgic. I stared at the cobweb strings in the ceiling.
“Do you have to be long-haired to become part of a band?” Mang Joey asked.
“No, not really,” my nape’s getting itchy with all the trimmed hair lingering there. “It’s just, you know, style.”
“Oh, style. For some reason, I could relate to that.”
“What do you mean, Mang Joey?”
“I’ll be honest with you,” he paused for a while on trimming, and took a moment to analyze what he’s done to my hair in the mirror. “You’re my first customer in weeks.”
I was not surprised. When I entered earlier and saw changes, I knew something must have happened.
“Kids nowadays prefer various hair styles. They want haircuts similar to that stuff they see on T.V,” he continued. “What can I do? I’m old. What I know is what I know. I can’t study the trend that pleases those youngsters. Or maybe I was just not born for that.”
I was just listening. I don’t know what to say.
“I guess the time is long gone when people are satisfied with simple cuts and shaves,” he added.
“Cheer up, Mang Joey. Those styles don’t look good anyway,” I sneered.
Mang Joey smiled the way he smiled to me earlier. “I’m closing the place down.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I think it’s time for me to retire.”
I agreed with what he said and told him that he seemed too weak and too old for this kind of job already. He told me that some entrepreneur got interested on buying his shop, and had plans on transforming it to a unisex parlor, offering the needs of the community for the trends in hair fashion.
“Why not bite into that?” I asked him.
“Once that happens, what then? What would I do?” he took the electric razor, powered it, making that stinging, vibrating sound again. My hair was cut short enough for the efficiency of the razor to manifest.
His voice was slow as he spoke. “This is all I know to do. It’s been part of my life.”
“What about your sons?” I remembered his two sons who used to help him out here. “Why don’t you go to them? I think they’ll help you.”
The tone of Mang Joey’s voice sank. “They’re both overseas.” It seems he doesn’t want to talk about it. The razor whirred loudly as he dampened it on the sides and on the back of my head.
“Don’t they send you money?” I asked.
“Oh yes, they do.”
“Then I think you’d be fine if you sell this shop.”
“Yeah, maybe,” was his answer. There was sadness in his voice, its tone somewhat wilting down, and it made me think that I should not delve into this anymore.
We were wrapped in silence for a few minutes, with only the sound of the electric razor dancing around. I was about to ask him something about his experience as barber, but he spoke first. “So how come you stopped playing in your band?” he asked.
At first I didn’t reply. He went on. “I remember seeing you on the OctoberFest. I never knew you were a good guitarist.”
I gave him a frail smile. “Well, we got worn out,” was my answer to his question.
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say that what brought us together in the first place was our passion for music. But you know, as the boat sailed, people got sick of the sea.” Yes, that was true. What brought us together was music, but through the length of time, differences erupted like skin boils.
Mang Joey springkled little amounts of water on my neatly-cut hair. Then he took a tiny blade from a nearby wooden drawer and started scratching out some residues of hair on the back of my ears and above the nape.
“But you’ll never stop playing, right?” he said.
“Playing what?”
“Music.”
“Oh,” I smiled. “No, I won’t. Music is in my soul. But I’m afraid there’ll be less time for it now that I’m planning to concentrate on my job. My fingers will sure miss the strings and notes. And to be honest, Mang Joey, when I was in my band, my needs weren’t that sustained enough.”
He gave a slight nod; his sleepy-looking eyes are focused on the blade he’s holding, perhaps being careful not to cut my skin. “Does being a barber sustain you?” I asked him.
“I think it sustained enough,” he said. He was done with the blade. He brought it back at the drawer. “I mean, I made my sons finish their education just by this job. I’ve also invested some money for my health insurances.”
“Oh, that’s good,” I saw him take a thinning scissor and started cutting some irregularities on the hair on my top.
“But I’ll sure miss this place. I hope the new owner would treat it right,” Mang Joey said.
“You deserve your retirement. And it’s time for you to enjoy your remaining years,” I said. He brushed hair off of my nape and shoulders with a brush sprinkled with talcum powder. I removed the white garment full of hair from my body and stood from the barber’s chair. I paid him forty pesos, which he took at once.
“I’ll help you clean up,” I said.
“No, I can manage—”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Mang Joey,” I insisted. I took the walis tambo resting on the wall as well as a plastic dust pan and swept the hair littered on the linoleum floor.
“Thanks,” Mang Joey said when I was done.
“It’s no problem,” I replied. Then I gave him a follow-up question. “Where’d you go when you retire?”
“I’ll go to the province, my hometown.”
I smiled. “Good luck, Mang Joey.”
He thanked me again, and gave off the same weak smile I saw earlier. I pushed the glass door and stepped outside.
When I arrived home, I took a shower that removed all residues of cut hair from my head. When I was done, I stared at myself in the mirror, only to find out that I’m not used to seeing myself in a haircut like this. It was nicely done though. Same old Mang Joey. Despite his age, he could still cut hair right. Too bad he’s retiring. Well, the old man deserves it.
In the months that followed, I was engaged to my work. And when the time came when I needed a haircut again, I found myself tracing the steps towards Mang Joey’s barber shop. Unfortunately, everything’s different now: Joey’s Barber Shop was now Rene’s Salon. The place was bigger. I gazed through the glass door and saw how very much of it has changed: there were additional barber’s chairs, more workers, and there’s also people waiting in line. Rene’s Salon was a success.
I found a new barber shop. It’s not the same as Joey’s, but simpler than Rene’s. And as I take my haircut this time, I wondered where Mang Joey is now. Maybe busy chewing nga-nga while beneath a summer sun in the beach, or maybe he’s still a barber, busying himself on other people’s heads.
At some point, I wondered if I’d be playing with my band again.