Memoirist Idol

Primal Scream Barbershops

And don’t ask for a shave

Dateline: a strip mall in Stone Plaza, where you can find a hair salon, a dog grooming parlor, a friendly CBD carrying pharmacy, Cabin Floor Records, and a barbershop.

I love strip malls and wish I had been born in one. I go to the pharmacist regularly, and to Cabin Floor Records. The owner told me once that he accepted used albums from an old sailor, and in the bag the guy brought were stacks of old porno photos, which definitely can’t be played at 33 or 45 rpm.

I used to go to the barbershop next door to Cabin Floor. The owner was once a kid who loved to look like John Lennon, the Yoko-era, Two Virgins John. He inherited the business from his father who hated Lennon and all long hair — a good reason to become a barber. But this kid now: he seemed well-groomed enough in an old guru sense, and would show reruns of The Daily Show as he cut my hair.

Once, I popped in around noon for a cut, and he was sitting at a table near the front eating a bologna sandwich. I sat in the patrons’ chair against the wall, and after I sat, he looked at me,

“Uh, I’m eating lunch. Would you mind coming back later. I don’t like people to see me eating.”

The shop had its open sign proudly displayed and I thought so many things, one of them being,

“Well, if you don’t want people to see you eating, why do you sit in the open, by the window? And why bologna? What would your father and John Lennon think?”

But all I said instead, was “Sure man.” See you later.

I never went back because some changes, some requests, while honored, draw parts in the scalp that can’t be combed over, you know?

My hair grew long again, and I found other barbers, but Cabin Floor remained.

Cabin Floor’s owner once asked if I had ever gone to the barber next door, and so I told him the story.

He shook his head and told me his:

“Man, he was nice enough, but once I went in for a haircut and he asked if I had an appointment. There was no one else in the shop, and so I said, ‘no, I just want a quick trim,’ and he still shook his head and said, ‘No I don’t want to cut your hair,’ and so I left. But that’s not even the weird part. One night soon after, I heard this sound from the shop…like a…SCREAM!”

And so he poked his head in the door, and sure enough, the barber kept screaming. Primal.

As I left the record store, my copy of Fleetwood Mac’s recently re-released Then Play On under my arm, I glanced in the barbershop.

There he was, sitting in his own barber chair.

Staring at me.

And I kept going before I heard the scream.

Thanks to The Memoirist and Its Memoirist Idol prompt. I think we owe KiKi Walter everything.

And if you haven’t yet read May Y. Yang’s amazing story right here,

then please do so that you may understand why someone bets everything, and yet, it’s the one observing who feels the loss, if not the hardest, then maybe forever.

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