Turkish Shave

Harold couldn’t wait to get freshened up. His beard was matted. He loved the feeling of being pampered. But the barber shop didn’t feel right from the off. Its proprietor looked like it was his first day on the job.

          He took a seat in the swivelling chair and lay back. The barber placed the apron over him and applied shaving cream to his face. The cut-throat razor looked like a lethal weapon in his clumsy hands.

          The barber suddenly slipped and cut Harold’s ear off. Harold didn’t know what was going on at first. He felt no pain. Just warm blood oozing down his neck. He looked down towards the floor, at his severed, detached ear.

          “What the fuck…” he said.

          “Shit,” the barber said.

          “What have you done?”

          “It was an accident.” The barber picked up Harold’s ear and offered it back to him. “Here.”

          Harold took it off him and stared at it like some mysterious deep-sea creature. “My ear…”

          “Sorry. I slipped.”

          “It would appear so, mate. Are you just gunna stand there, or are you gunna ring me an ambulance?” It was beginning to sting like a bitch now.

          The barber extracted an ancient mobile and punched in a number. Then he just held it against his head for a long period without saying anything.

          “Well? Are they coming or not?”

          The barber looked helpless. “I’m just seeing how much credit I’ve got left.”

          “Jesus Christ. The emergency services are free.”

          “Oh. Is it nine nine nine, or nine one one?”

          “Nine nine nine. Tell ‘em I’m bloody bleedin’ to death here.”

          He dialled, but stuttered and stammered when they answered.

          “Give.” Harold took the gentleman’s phone. “Can you come to the Turkish Delight barbershop on Woodchurch Road please? Some dumb bastard’s just cut my ear clean off.”

          Call done, Harold tried to stem the blood flow.

          “Don’t worry,” the barber said. “There’ll be no charge this time.”

          “That’s kind of ya.” Harold was on the verge of crying. He wanted to take that cut-throat razor and cut the barber’s own ear off with it, see how he liked it. “Have you got any ice?”

          “We don’t have a fridge-freezer on the premises. But there’s a Farmfoods up the road.”

          Harold shook his head. “Go and get a bag of ice then! I need to preserve it so the medics can sew it back on.”

          The barber moved swiftly to the door and locked it behind him, turning the sign around to CLOSED. When the ambulance arrived, they couldn’t get in. He returned much later with bags of food. He’d decided to do his weekly shop while he was there. Then he couldn’t find his keys. Eventually, after rifling through the many pockets of his combat trousers, he opened the goddamn door.

          The medics rushed in and attended to Harold.

          “Ice,” he said. “Did you get the ice?”

          The barber had indeed got the ice. But it had melted.

 © 2019