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| _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ |
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The Haircut
by G. Rhydian Morgan
Saturday, December 22, 2007
by G. Rhydian Morgan
Saturday, December 22, 2007
| CONTACT THE LIZARD |
Charlie was nine years old and he was happy. He was happy
that the sky was blue and that the grass was green. He was
happy that the earth was brown and the sun was yellow. It
looked good. It felt good. It was right. But Charlie was only
nine years old and although doing well in school he felt
there was something missing. Charlie wanted to be wise. He
wanted to be wise more than anything in the world. People
said he was sweet and he didn’t want to be sweet. People said
he was cute and he hated being cute. He wanted to be wise.
The trouble was every time Charlie looked in the
mirror all that looked back was cute. Two rosy round cheeks
that people pulled as they patronised him. Sweet and
symmetrical dimples. A button nose that his kissed goodnight.
Blond curls that tumbled from his head and framed a happy
blue-eyed smile. It was all cute. And Charlie hated being
cute. He wanted to be wise.
He thought of all the wise people he knew. He thought
of his grandfather, who years ago had been able to make coins
come from nowhere, from behind Charlie’s ear. And always
telling stories that Charlie’s mother would blush at before
collapsing in giggles. Charlie’s grandfather didn’t say much
at all these days and his hands shook so much that any coins
would have tumbled to the floor but on the occasions that he
did speak every body would listen and nod very seriously and
say, “That’s right.” Ergo Charlie’s grandfather was wise. He
dribbled now and then and had trouble with his bowels and
what hair there was on his head grew from nostril and ear
rather than scalp. But he was wise and that is what Charlie
wanted to be.
He thought of old Mr. Halloran, whose lawn he mowed
each summer. Mr. Halloran always knew who was going to win
the next election. He always knew who was going to win the
big race at the weekend. He knew just which teams would
triumph every season. Mr. Halloran was wise. Charlie thought
he looked like a sad old eagle. His hooded eyes were always
bloodshot and wet. His nose was a huge beak. And his hair was
the colour of snow clouds and formed a crown around his head.
When Charlie’s eyes were red and wet it was because he had
been crying, not because he was wise. There wasn’t much he
could do about his nose either… Then Charlie thought of
another wise man.
He thought of Mr. Jaminski who sat in the park all
day drinking from a paper bag and talking to people that
Charlie could not see. Charlie and the other children weren't
supposed to go near him and he did smell a little strange.
But some times Charlie and his friends would hide in the
bushes and listen to the conversation. Charlie didn’t
understand all of the words. He didn’t know what a ‘cunt’ was
for example. But some of the words sounded like ones he had
heard Mr. Halloran use and so Mr. Jaminski was wise. Mr.
Jaminski was always dressed in the same clothes. He had an
old torn raincoat that was undone but not open, a black
trouser with white marks on the leg and a hat without a shape
or a name. Some times he would take off the hat and scratch
his pink scalp vigorously, loosing pieces of dry dead skin…
And suddenly Charlie knew just what he had to do to become
wise.
He took the stairs two at a time and burst into his
room. There were two notes in his money-box. He took them. He
did not know how much he would need but imagined it to be
enough. Usually his mother took him and read out of date
magazines as she waited. But today he would have to go alone.
He turned and bolted down the stairs. He shouted to
his mother. “I’m going to Richie’s!” and he was gone. He
clattered through the door too quickly, too noisily to hear
the warning not to be late for dinner. He sprinted to the
corner of the street, turned left and sprinted again before
the next turn left showed him the place. He ran as fast as he
could, impatient to discover his wisdom and arrived some what
out of breath.
“I’d like a haircut, please.” Charlie panted,
breathless from the run as he sat in the empty chair. The
barber was new and so thought nothing of Charlie coming in
here without his mother.
“Sure, son. How would you like it?”
“I want it like yours.” Charlie beamed. “With a hole
in it.”
“Are you sure about that?” The barber looked nervous.
“It’s a little… drastic…” His voice trailed off.
“It’s for school.” Charlie lied. “I have to be a monk
in a play.” He tried to look embarrassed. He thought this
would make him more believable.
The barber shrugged. Living in the big city he had
already come across stranger requests than this from nine
year olds, and if it was for a school play… He started to cut
Charlie’s hair and only stopped when the kid said so.
Charlie paid for the cut. He walked out into the air.
The first thing he noticed was how much colder he felt even
though the sun was still high. He no longer ran but walked
with hunched shoulders, rounded back and head drooped
forward. He knew just who was going to win the big race this
weekend. He knew what a ‘cunt’ was. He knew what made his
mother scream so loud she kept him awake when his father was
away on business. He knew that his father’s ‘business’ was
done in the same dirty room with the same woman for the same
price every time. And he knew that the colours of the sky and
the sun, the grass and the earth were all wrong. Charlie was
wise.
that the sky was blue and that the grass was green. He was
happy that the earth was brown and the sun was yellow. It
looked good. It felt good. It was right. But Charlie was only
nine years old and although doing well in school he felt
there was something missing. Charlie wanted to be wise. He
wanted to be wise more than anything in the world. People
said he was sweet and he didn’t want to be sweet. People said
he was cute and he hated being cute. He wanted to be wise.
The trouble was every time Charlie looked in the
mirror all that looked back was cute. Two rosy round cheeks
that people pulled as they patronised him. Sweet and
symmetrical dimples. A button nose that his kissed goodnight.
Blond curls that tumbled from his head and framed a happy
blue-eyed smile. It was all cute. And Charlie hated being
cute. He wanted to be wise.
He thought of all the wise people he knew. He thought
of his grandfather, who years ago had been able to make coins
come from nowhere, from behind Charlie’s ear. And always
telling stories that Charlie’s mother would blush at before
collapsing in giggles. Charlie’s grandfather didn’t say much
at all these days and his hands shook so much that any coins
would have tumbled to the floor but on the occasions that he
did speak every body would listen and nod very seriously and
say, “That’s right.” Ergo Charlie’s grandfather was wise. He
dribbled now and then and had trouble with his bowels and
what hair there was on his head grew from nostril and ear
rather than scalp. But he was wise and that is what Charlie
wanted to be.
He thought of old Mr. Halloran, whose lawn he mowed
each summer. Mr. Halloran always knew who was going to win
the next election. He always knew who was going to win the
big race at the weekend. He knew just which teams would
triumph every season. Mr. Halloran was wise. Charlie thought
he looked like a sad old eagle. His hooded eyes were always
bloodshot and wet. His nose was a huge beak. And his hair was
the colour of snow clouds and formed a crown around his head.
When Charlie’s eyes were red and wet it was because he had
been crying, not because he was wise. There wasn’t much he
could do about his nose either… Then Charlie thought of
another wise man.
He thought of Mr. Jaminski who sat in the park all
day drinking from a paper bag and talking to people that
Charlie could not see. Charlie and the other children weren't
supposed to go near him and he did smell a little strange.
But some times Charlie and his friends would hide in the
bushes and listen to the conversation. Charlie didn’t
understand all of the words. He didn’t know what a ‘cunt’ was
for example. But some of the words sounded like ones he had
heard Mr. Halloran use and so Mr. Jaminski was wise. Mr.
Jaminski was always dressed in the same clothes. He had an
old torn raincoat that was undone but not open, a black
trouser with white marks on the leg and a hat without a shape
or a name. Some times he would take off the hat and scratch
his pink scalp vigorously, loosing pieces of dry dead skin…
And suddenly Charlie knew just what he had to do to become
wise.
He took the stairs two at a time and burst into his
room. There were two notes in his money-box. He took them. He
did not know how much he would need but imagined it to be
enough. Usually his mother took him and read out of date
magazines as she waited. But today he would have to go alone.
He turned and bolted down the stairs. He shouted to
his mother. “I’m going to Richie’s!” and he was gone. He
clattered through the door too quickly, too noisily to hear
the warning not to be late for dinner. He sprinted to the
corner of the street, turned left and sprinted again before
the next turn left showed him the place. He ran as fast as he
could, impatient to discover his wisdom and arrived some what
out of breath.
“I’d like a haircut, please.” Charlie panted,
breathless from the run as he sat in the empty chair. The
barber was new and so thought nothing of Charlie coming in
here without his mother.
“Sure, son. How would you like it?”
“I want it like yours.” Charlie beamed. “With a hole
in it.”
“Are you sure about that?” The barber looked nervous.
“It’s a little… drastic…” His voice trailed off.
“It’s for school.” Charlie lied. “I have to be a monk
in a play.” He tried to look embarrassed. He thought this
would make him more believable.
The barber shrugged. Living in the big city he had
already come across stranger requests than this from nine
year olds, and if it was for a school play… He started to cut
Charlie’s hair and only stopped when the kid said so.
Charlie paid for the cut. He walked out into the air.
The first thing he noticed was how much colder he felt even
though the sun was still high. He no longer ran but walked
with hunched shoulders, rounded back and head drooped
forward. He knew just who was going to win the big race this
weekend. He knew what a ‘cunt’ was. He knew what made his
mother scream so loud she kept him awake when his father was
away on business. He knew that his father’s ‘business’ was
done in the same dirty room with the same woman for the same
price every time. And he knew that the colours of the sky and
the sun, the grass and the earth were all wrong. Charlie was
wise.
| Updated at least 26½ times a day |
FIN
© lizardmagazine.com, 2007