a time for candour, and then there's a time for bollocks. This, thought Barney, was most definitely, with bright, spanking knobs on, a hundred-piece orchestra playing Ode to Joy , and a herald of exultant angels singing hosannas upon high, a time for bollocks.
'It was brilliant. A fine piece of barbery. Hirsutology from the top drawer. A haircut of stunning eloquence. Pure magic.'
Leyman Blizzard rubbed his hand across his beard and nodded.
'Thought it was a load of shite myself,' he said.
'Oh.'
'Can't cut hair to pee my pants,' said Blizzard, and the young lad looked at him out of the corner of his eye, thanking some higher force that he'd been saved. 'Not since a long time passed. You might just be the man to save this shop, son. That was a good job you just did there. A Jimmy Stewart. I can just about manage one of them myself these days, but not much else.'
'What happened?' asked Barney, although he knew the answer. It happened to them all. Eventually the steadiness disappeared, the hand–eye co-ordination was lost, and even the most basic aspects of barbery became a trial.
'Just the usual, son,' said Blizzard. 'Just the same shite that happens to every bastard when they get old. I've been doing this job for near on fifty year. Now I'm washed up. I'm finished. You know who I am? I'm Muhammad Ali when he fought Larry Holmes. I'm George Best when he played for Hibs. I'm Sinatra when he did the Duets albums.'
'Jim Baxter when he went back to Rangers,' said the lad.
'Aye, that's me all right. At a dead end. I'm Arnold Palmer; I'm Sugar Ray Leonard; I'm Burt Reynolds.'
'Steve Archibald when he signed for Barcelona,' said the lad.
'That was at the peak of his career,' said Blizzard.
'Aye, but he was still shite.'
'Fair point. Anyway, I'm all of those people, all of them. I've got about three regular customers left and one of them's so short-sighted the daft bastard can't see what a mess I'm making of his head. I don't know you from Adam, son. I just know your name, and you might be that bloody murdering eejit who disappeared up in the Highlands, 'cause they say he could cut a mean hair or two, I don't know, but you look to me like a hell of a barber. I'll up your wages if I can, and help you out with the Jimmy Stewarts, and I'll leave the rest to you. You're the boss. How about it?'
Barney looked over at Leyman Blizzard. The expression on his face betrayed his astonishment. How many years in Henderson's had he searched in vain for such recognition? How many times in the distant past at that shop had he completed some masterpiece, only to see his work ignored, his genius disregarded, so that eventually his confidence had gone and he had become the bitter pursuivant of mediocrity? And now, after just three haircuts, there was a man willing to reward him for doing a good job. It was as if he had found the father figure he had been missing all these years.
'I'd like that very much, Mr Blizzard,' he said. 'That'd be brilliant.'
'Stoatir,' said the old man. 'And you can call me Leyman.'
They exchanged a glance. A special bond had been created. It was if he were Skywalker to Leyman Blizzard's Yoda. That is, if Yoda had been absolutely shite at cutting hair.
'Here,' said the lad, having found his tongue with the denunciation of Steve Archibald, 'is your name Barney Thomson?'
Barney nodded, now flowing smoothly through the Elvis Girls, Girls, Girls .
'Aye, it is,' he said.
'Bit of a coincidence that. I mean, you being a barber 'n' all?'
Barney Thomson looked down at the lad and took a moment. He turned to Leyman Blizzard, looked around the small barber's shop which had become his new home – the two chairs, the small bench, yesterday's newspapers and five-month-old Sunday Post supplements, and no concessions to Christmas but for the picture of a former Spice Girl, naked but for a discreetly placed bit of tinsel, on the cover of the Mirror – had a glance out of the large windows of the shopfront at the miserable
'It was brilliant. A fine piece of barbery. Hirsutology from the top drawer. A haircut of stunning eloquence. Pure magic.'
Leyman Blizzard rubbed his hand across his beard and nodded.
'Thought it was a load of shite myself,' he said.
'Oh.'
'Can't cut hair to pee my pants,' said Blizzard, and the young lad looked at him out of the corner of his eye, thanking some higher force that he'd been saved. 'Not since a long time passed. You might just be the man to save this shop, son. That was a good job you just did there. A Jimmy Stewart. I can just about manage one of them myself these days, but not much else.'
'What happened?' asked Barney, although he knew the answer. It happened to them all. Eventually the steadiness disappeared, the hand–eye co-ordination was lost, and even the most basic aspects of barbery became a trial.
'Just the usual, son,' said Blizzard. 'Just the same shite that happens to every bastard when they get old. I've been doing this job for near on fifty year. Now I'm washed up. I'm finished. You know who I am? I'm Muhammad Ali when he fought Larry Holmes. I'm George Best when he played for Hibs. I'm Sinatra when he did the Duets albums.'
'Jim Baxter when he went back to Rangers,' said the lad.
'Aye, that's me all right. At a dead end. I'm Arnold Palmer; I'm Sugar Ray Leonard; I'm Burt Reynolds.'
'Steve Archibald when he signed for Barcelona,' said the lad.
'That was at the peak of his career,' said Blizzard.
'Aye, but he was still shite.'
'Fair point. Anyway, I'm all of those people, all of them. I've got about three regular customers left and one of them's so short-sighted the daft bastard can't see what a mess I'm making of his head. I don't know you from Adam, son. I just know your name, and you might be that bloody murdering eejit who disappeared up in the Highlands, 'cause they say he could cut a mean hair or two, I don't know, but you look to me like a hell of a barber. I'll up your wages if I can, and help you out with the Jimmy Stewarts, and I'll leave the rest to you. You're the boss. How about it?'
Barney looked over at Leyman Blizzard. The expression on his face betrayed his astonishment. How many years in Henderson's had he searched in vain for such recognition? How many times in the distant past at that shop had he completed some masterpiece, only to see his work ignored, his genius disregarded, so that eventually his confidence had gone and he had become the bitter pursuivant of mediocrity? And now, after just three haircuts, there was a man willing to reward him for doing a good job. It was as if he had found the father figure he had been missing all these years.
'I'd like that very much, Mr Blizzard,' he said. 'That'd be brilliant.'
'Stoatir,' said the old man. 'And you can call me Leyman.'
They exchanged a glance. A special bond had been created. It was if he were Skywalker to Leyman Blizzard's Yoda. That is, if Yoda had been absolutely shite at cutting hair.
'Here,' said the lad, having found his tongue with the denunciation of Steve Archibald, 'is your name Barney Thomson?'
Barney nodded, now flowing smoothly through the Elvis Girls, Girls, Girls .
'Aye, it is,' he said.
'Bit of a coincidence that. I mean, you being a barber 'n' all?'
Barney Thomson looked down at the lad and took a moment. He turned to Leyman Blizzard, looked around the small barber's shop which had become his new home – the two chairs, the small bench, yesterday's newspapers and five-month-old Sunday Post supplements, and no concessions to Christmas but for the picture of a former Spice Girl, naked but for a discreetly placed bit of tinsel, on the cover of the Mirror – had a glance out of the large windows of the shopfront at the miserable
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