perspective. He was working on a rainy day in a small shop, on the outskirts of an old city on the west coast of an unfulfilled country, on the edge of a divided continent, at the heart of an insignificantly small planet, in an inconsequential solar system, at the bottom end of a meagre galaxy, downtown in the great Gotham City of the universe. Who cared if he, or anyone else, gave a bad haircut?
He nodded at the mince and tatties remark, then stood back from the final snip. His work here was complete. He could send the man packing with a haircut answering to every Euclidean assumption, and turn his attention to the solitary chap in the queue. Although, as it happened, Leyman Blizzard came to the end of his magnum opus in malfeasance just before Barney, and he assumed he would take the next customer.
'That's you, mate,' said Barney, 'all done.' Not before time, he thought. Jelly Babies had been the end of it, but what had gone before had ranged far and wide and touched upon almost every topic in the Barbershop Handbook.
The man looked in the mirror, somewhat surprised. There was yet much in his repertoire which required airing, not least the bare bones of his thesis on Lysenkoism and its applicability to ghetto culture. All his mates had heard it and they'd all told him to shut up the minute he opened his mouth, but barbers had no option but to listen. But he was happy enough with the results, so he rose from his chair as the cape was withdrawn, handed over the required money, stuck a cheeky wee fifty pence into Barney's hand, and was gone; murmuring as he went strange thoughts on the demise of Spangles.
Just ahead of him went Leyman Blizzard's customer, the Hair of Horrors upon his shattered head, all sorts of condemnation and humiliation awaiting him, his haircut set to be the concubine to reprobation.
Barney pursed his lips. He and the old man looked at one another, each with a common understanding of the other's abilities. And Blizzard realised he'd made a good decision.
'You take the next customer, son,' he said.
'You sure?' asked Barney. 'You were done first, boss.'
'Naw, naw, on you go, on you go,' he said, and the customer, his heart singing with triumphant relief, stepped up to Barney's chair. A young man, due to go on a surprise last-minute date with the object of his affections, and desperate not to look like a complete idiot.
Barney did the thing with the cape and the towel at the back of the neck, and could feel The Force returning to him. Just like the good old days. Except nowadays he could make a reasonable job of cutting hair. He was back. He was refreshed. This was his Elvis NBC Special. He ought to have been dressed in black and surrounded by babes.
'What'll it be, son?' he asked.
The lad looked at him, considered again what he was about to do.
'I want to look like Elvis,' he said.
A sign.
'Thin Elvis,' said Barney, 'I assume from the fact that you're thin?' Sharp as a button.
'Aye,' said the lad. 'Thin Elvis. Like he looked in Girls, Girls, Girls . Make me look like that.'
Barney had never seen Girls, Girls, Girls , but he could cope. And so he set to work with his scissors, a comb, some shampoo, a hairdryer, a Euro-size can of mousse, two litres of olive oil, half a kilo of fettuccine and a certain degree of panache.
Leyman Blizzard sat and watched; didn't say much at first. The lad said nothing, being altogether too nervous. He had heard tell that Wee Jean McBean, a girl of moist reputation, would forego any sort of lovemaking preliminaries – dinner, dancing, presents, desperate pleading – for an Elvis look-alike. If this haircut went well, he was in there and he knew it.
'What did you think of the haircut I just did, son?' asked Leyman Blizzard after a while.
Barney glanced over at his new boss, remembering to stop cutting hair as he did so, something he wouldn't always have done in the past. He considered his answer and thought of this: there are two kinds of time in life. There's
He nodded at the mince and tatties remark, then stood back from the final snip. His work here was complete. He could send the man packing with a haircut answering to every Euclidean assumption, and turn his attention to the solitary chap in the queue. Although, as it happened, Leyman Blizzard came to the end of his magnum opus in malfeasance just before Barney, and he assumed he would take the next customer.
'That's you, mate,' said Barney, 'all done.' Not before time, he thought. Jelly Babies had been the end of it, but what had gone before had ranged far and wide and touched upon almost every topic in the Barbershop Handbook.
The man looked in the mirror, somewhat surprised. There was yet much in his repertoire which required airing, not least the bare bones of his thesis on Lysenkoism and its applicability to ghetto culture. All his mates had heard it and they'd all told him to shut up the minute he opened his mouth, but barbers had no option but to listen. But he was happy enough with the results, so he rose from his chair as the cape was withdrawn, handed over the required money, stuck a cheeky wee fifty pence into Barney's hand, and was gone; murmuring as he went strange thoughts on the demise of Spangles.
Just ahead of him went Leyman Blizzard's customer, the Hair of Horrors upon his shattered head, all sorts of condemnation and humiliation awaiting him, his haircut set to be the concubine to reprobation.
Barney pursed his lips. He and the old man looked at one another, each with a common understanding of the other's abilities. And Blizzard realised he'd made a good decision.
'You take the next customer, son,' he said.
'You sure?' asked Barney. 'You were done first, boss.'
'Naw, naw, on you go, on you go,' he said, and the customer, his heart singing with triumphant relief, stepped up to Barney's chair. A young man, due to go on a surprise last-minute date with the object of his affections, and desperate not to look like a complete idiot.
Barney did the thing with the cape and the towel at the back of the neck, and could feel The Force returning to him. Just like the good old days. Except nowadays he could make a reasonable job of cutting hair. He was back. He was refreshed. This was his Elvis NBC Special. He ought to have been dressed in black and surrounded by babes.
'What'll it be, son?' he asked.
The lad looked at him, considered again what he was about to do.
'I want to look like Elvis,' he said.
A sign.
'Thin Elvis,' said Barney, 'I assume from the fact that you're thin?' Sharp as a button.
'Aye,' said the lad. 'Thin Elvis. Like he looked in Girls, Girls, Girls . Make me look like that.'
Barney had never seen Girls, Girls, Girls , but he could cope. And so he set to work with his scissors, a comb, some shampoo, a hairdryer, a Euro-size can of mousse, two litres of olive oil, half a kilo of fettuccine and a certain degree of panache.
Leyman Blizzard sat and watched; didn't say much at first. The lad said nothing, being altogether too nervous. He had heard tell that Wee Jean McBean, a girl of moist reputation, would forego any sort of lovemaking preliminaries – dinner, dancing, presents, desperate pleading – for an Elvis look-alike. If this haircut went well, he was in there and he knew it.
'What did you think of the haircut I just did, son?' asked Leyman Blizzard after a while.
Barney glanced over at his new boss, remembering to stop cutting hair as he did so, something he wouldn't always have done in the past. He considered his answer and thought of this: there are two kinds of time in life. There's
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