If and when the apocalypse finally happens and I survive, I’m gonna be the most pissed-off human left on the earth. I can’t stand for my hair to be long, and I have to shave every day. The stubble under my neck drives me crazy, and all the Road Warrior gangs better steer clear.
I finally found a real barbershop. Not a hair salon, stylist center, hair spa, or hair stylist. It’s an old-school barbershop with hair on the floor, slightly uncomfortable chairs, and the smell of Barbicide or Pinaud, with an undertone of cigars and pipe smoke.
A rack of magazines sits beside the door, ranging from shooting sports, hunting, cars, or anything with Texas in the title.
The two barbers who’ve retired from either law enforcement or the military. How do I know? Their own haircuts, tattoos, and the subject matter they discuss. I haven’t asked, though.
Most of the time I simply walk in and one of them is available, scissors in hand and lightly clicking as if waiting for a head.
Today was different. Both chairs were occupied, and I was in a hurry. A lively discussion about wild hogs bounced back and forth between the barbers and one customer who was draped and seated.
A redheaded gentleman sat beside a mom concentrating on her phone, waiting for her son’s fancy haircut to be finished. Beside him, a bent man with hair whiter than my own listened to the exchange, hands on the head of his cane and smiling as if he knew a secret.
Barber One stepped back to judge the length of his young project’s sideburns. “Well, I believe we can’t kill enough hogs. I hear there are nearly three million of them in the state.”
Feral hogs are so destructive to crops and land, it’s estimated they cost Texans between $400 to $500 million dollars each year. They’re dangerous to humans and animals, destroy habitat, and carry communicative diseases that can be passed on to livestock.
Redhead chuckled. “About half of them are rooting up my pasture.”
“I heard Constable Rick killed one off his porch the other morning,” I said.
Barber One shook his head. “Well, that leaves two million, nine hundred ninety-nine more.”
Barber Two paused, thinking. “How many piglets can a feral sow have at a time?”
“Six to twelve,” I recalled. “Usually six, I’ve heard, but I don’t know anyone who goes out and counts them.”
“Well, then we’re back up to three million and five by now, as fast as those things reproduce.”
The discussion continued until it was my time in the chair. He shook out the drape and clipped it around my neck.
“What are we doing for you today?”
“Short. No skin showing.”
“Got it.”
The youngster stepped down from Barber One’s chair, to be replaced by the white-haired man who creaked his way to the chair and settled in. I met the elderly gentleman’s eyes and he nodded a hello.
The barber wrapped his neck. “How are we cutting today, sir?”
“Make it look good, like it’s not a fresh cut.”
“Trying to make an impression?”
“I have a lot of people coming to visit.”
“Birthday. Anniversary?”
“Funeral.”
“Sorry to hear. Hope it wasn’t someone close.”
“About as close as it can be. It’s me.”
I raised an eyebrow, waiting for the punchline.
The elderly man smiled. “I’m dying.”
Barber Two chuckled. “Aren’t we all.”
I closed my eyes, listening.
“No. Really. The doctors released me a few days ago after I was in the hospital for several weeks. Said my kidneys are failing and there’s nothing else they can do. Sent me home with hospice.” He sighed. “I have a kidney infection now, and they figure I won’t see Monday.”
My barber paused. “Well, doctors don’t know everything.”
“They don’t, but I know how I feel.” He chuckled and I cracked an eye open again. He was honestly cheerful, and I still thought he was setting us up.
“But it’s okay. I’ve done it all. I was married to a wonderful woman who’s already up there waiting for me. My daughters are successful businesswomen and moms, and my son’ll come to his senses one of these days. Maybe this’ll straighten him out.
“I’ve traveled the world, vacationed in every state. Hunting and fished here in the U.S., shot big game in Africa, caught marlin from blue water and sailed on a big three-masted schooner.”
The shop was silent. Even their scissors weren’t clicking.
“I’ve driven good cars, eaten fine food, though I still think home fried chicken is best, and watched good people do great things.”
Barber One started to speak, but had to stop and clear his throat. “So you figure you needed a haircut.”
“Wanted to take one last thing off my list.” The gentleman’s smile was as wide as a four-lane highway. “I have most everything else taken care of. Gave my guns away to son-in-laws and good friends who’re still young enough to use them.
“I just wish I could hunt quail one more time. I miss that most, following dogs on a chilly morning. I wonder if quail and dogs will be in heaven.” He paused, veering off again. “No matter. You know, I’m looking forward to seeing my mama again.”
A few minutes later, Barber Two gave my shoulder a pat and spun me around to face the big mirror on the wall. “All finished.”
Apparently, my instructions weren’t clear enough. My hair looked as if I’d just joined the military. “Well, thanks.”
I stepped outside to consider my new head and what I’d heard. It was a lot to absorb, and I was still standing there when the old gentleman came outside.
He gave me that same wide grin and I couldn’t help but smile, too. “I know you.”
“You do?”
“Yep, I’ve been reading your newspaper columns for years, and most of your books, though that spooky one was a little much. Reading this last few years has been all I can do, so your stories have help passed the time.”
We stood there for a second before I held out my hand. “Thanks for reading my work.”
He nodded. “Not much to say, is there?” He shifted his cane and paused. “I’d rather have a hug, if it’s all the same to you.”
There in front of the barbershop, we hugged, and I let him be the one to step back. He winked. “Good luck.”
I patted his shoulder. “At least you got a better haircut than this one.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” he said and walked slowly away.
On the way home, other similar conversations came to mind, and that’s the purpose of this discussion. As writers, we’re entertainers, and our work is impactful in more ways than we expect. More than once I’ve heard my brother from another mother, John Gilstrap, say we’re entertainers, and that’s the God’s honest truth.
During a signing at the Barnes and Noble in Garland, Texas, about five years ago, a woman asked me to sign a stack of books bearing my name. “I have your new one here, but these others belonged to my husband.”
For once I knew when to keep my mouth shut, so I waited.
“He died a month ago from cancer, and your books helped him get through the chemo and these last months. He made me promise to buy everything you write, because he was such a big fan.”
Eyes stinging, I stepped around the signing table, and we stood there with our arms around each other long enough for a couple of other fans to tear up. My allergies must have been acting up, because my eyes watered for a long time after that.
Not getting too deep into a friend’s life, but a woman I’ve known for several years also gave my earlier books to her son who was suffering from cancer. He had a rough time of it, and at the end, she and his young wife read aloud to him when he could no longer focus. I had the honor of talking with him on the phone from across the country and had to clear my voice several times. We visited until his strength went that day and he was gone not long after that.
Don’t underestimate your work. It will impact others, and you probably won’t even know about it.
All summer in New England, the heat and humidity has been brutal. There’s a big difference between 90 degrees in dry heat and 90 with humidity so high the heat index rises to triple digits, the air so soupy and thick, even people without breathing problems still struggle to breathe.
The Villain’s Journey-How to Create Villains Readers Love to Hate is for sale at
