The Pale Locksmith

CHAPTER 14: THE HAIRCUT

The Locksmith balanced on the wobbly stool, looking through the open side of the wooden hut. He could see shoppers walking past, carrying their purchases from the day. Occasionally, one of them would look into the hut back at him. On the other side of the road, he could see some shops as well as another wooden hut almost identical to the one in which he was sitting. He had never been in there personally. There was nothing wrong with that razorman as far as he knew, but he trusted the one he used. After all, once you had found someone who you were comfortable with holding a blade against your neck, you seldom strayed elsewhere. The Locksmith had been using this same place since he had moved to Cilia Town, and they had never given him a reason to go elsewhere to get his haircut. Although haircut was perhaps too generous a word for what was about to happen, for that implied that a bit of effort and style was involved.

Of course, in his old life on the mainland, he had always gone to a real haircutter, one with training and everything. To be honest, he had never particularly enjoyed the experience.

"So do you enjoy haircutting? Are you very busy?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Are there any particular styles that you believe would suit me?"

"Mm-hmm."

There was always something excruciating about feeling that he should make polite conversation with someone who appeared bored with whatever he said and slightly offended by whatever extra coin he gave as a tip. The tip which was on top of the not inconsiderable sum he was paying in the first place. But now the unhealthy condition and appearance of his hair meant he just tried to keep it as short as possible. And this meant a street razorman would do just as well as a haircutter, and he actually preferred it that way.

Firstly, he now only handed over one coin. Secondly, it was also strangely peaceful, free as it was from too much talking. He had no idea where the man was from, he did not recognise the language. The queue of customers said little to each other either. Often the only noise from within the hut was the scraping of blade over skin. The exception was when a friend of the razorman's own land came into the hut. Then the conversation erupted, accompanied by animated hand waving, the blade still between his fingers. The Locksmith had been nervous of this at first, but had soon realised that no amount of potential distraction had any impact on the high quality of what the man did.

The razorman was a quick worker and was just finishing with the man in front of him. The Locksmith watched as a freshly shorn man got out of the stool, then hand over a medium-value coin to the razorman, receiving some smaller coins in return. After awkwardly handing a coin back as a tip, the man left.

"Who is next?"

A Rhetorical question from the razorman, for everyone who waits in a razorman's queue always knows who is next. The Locksmith moved to the man's stool.

"All off?"

"All off."

And with that, he made himself comfortable as a sheet was tied around his neck, then stared in the mirror. A younger version of his Papa stared back at him.

When he was very young, he had never seen his grandparents. At that time, his mother was still not in contact with them, and it had taken something significant and tragic for this to change. Suddenly, for the period of a few weeks, their mother was out of the home a couple of evenings a week, leaving them in the care of a neighbour. She had not said where she was going, but he had overheard enough from eavesdropping to know she was going to see her mother, their grandmother. It had seemed so unfair at the time that he and his sister were not going too; it was only later that he had understood how sick she must have been, and realised why they had never been taken. After the funeral - something else they did not attend - their grandfather had slowly become a part of their lives, and they had almost become like an ordinary family.