Parting his hair, I cracked the layered crust the curvature of a golf ball. A miniature maggot colony writhed inside releasing a pungent odor. Others huddled close as I cut hair removing the serum-forming dome concealing the boy’s head wound. He stared passively while his mother appeared relieved anticipating a holiday photo at the next station. Another guest awaited my clippers as Family Services escorted the mother and her young son aside.
“Drama, huh?” A tall, muscular Nigerian sat waiting bibbed and patient.
“Badly infected gash in the boy’s scalp … easier to cut the hair and lift the scabbed wad away.” I commented anticipating the next surprise in my line nearing thirty people waiting for haircuts.
“How would you like it?” I politely inquired embarrassed I delivered only one cut … size the clippers and go.
“Do what you can …” He paused as I positioned myself. “You don’t do this often.” He stated fact.
“Nope … once a year … hope this turns out the way you like it.” My inflection offered apology.
He affirmed, “It’ll be right.”
I volunteered among many offering services to those in need gathered in the basement beneath St. Francis Xavier College Church. Food, legal services, letter writing, clothing, haircuts, family photos, hygiene products, infant care … a one stop multi-service provider.
A few weeks earlier, I’d stated … I’d cut hair … but before I could finish explaining … on my dog …, I was drafted to cutting hair on humans.
Going with the flow, knowing they had no volunteers, I thought, ‘How hard could it be?’
“Whata you do?” I introduced barbershop small talk.
“I’m a barber.”
Nearly dropping my clippers, I gambled a nervous chuckle. “You ought to be doing this.”
“I ought, but I’m not.”
I shaved his right side.
“Out for my first time in six years.” He sat still pondering something I did not know. “Had my shop north of the Fox Theater. Man keep wanting money for not breaking into shop. I say nothing to nobody. But one day, I beat him. I beat him bad.”
I leveled my cut tuned to his every word. I wanted it perfect.
“Judge sent me to ten years. Lose license and shop. Jailed six years … and you’re a first guy I see.”
Speechless, I shaved his left side.
“Am I lookin’ good?” He smiled as if his pondering was complete.
“I think so.” I presented a mirror. He waved it away.
“I say it would be right and it is.” A wild grin glistened with his eyes. “You be here all day, boy,” he pronounced an obvious forecast. My line had grown. Another waited where the boy was seated earlier.
Not thirty minutes passed and my Nigerian guest returned … clippers and accessories in hand. He summoned the next guest.
Glancing at me, he chuckled. “I help you bring Christmas a little more a little earlier.”
… And that he did, cutting more efficiently, more elegantly, three haircuts to my one.
He wasn’t one much for conversation. As instantly as he appeared, he disappeared … our Lord’s barber.
Where have you seen our Lord, lately?
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