Ezra hesitates, then takes the middle chair. He does not spin it or adjust it. He sits like a man sitting in a waiting room.
The bell above the door jingles, but no one enters. O4M doesn’t look up.
My father. Two months ago.
The lights rise on the same space. The barber chairs are now empty, save for a single folded apron on the armrest of the middle chair. The air smells of talc and antiseptic. o4m barbershop sc. 2
And you haven’t cut your hair since.
You can come in. The bell doesn’t lie.
The clippers move in steady, careful strokes. The sound is rhythmic—almost musical. The light through the dusty window shifts. Ezra hesitates, then takes the middle chair
Open.
The lights fade to black.
He combs his fingers through Ezra’s hair—slow, professional, impersonal. The bell above the door jingles, but no one enters
Ezra exits. The bell jingles.
For that?
Same time next month?
Then you came to the wrong place.
The haircut is twelve. The rest is for telling you the truth.