I have quite thin hair – not thinning just yet, but what you might call lank – and as a rule I always use a hair stylist. Tyrone women are great contributors to the buoyant beauty industry but the men live in short-back-and-sidesville and because I find it impossible to coordinate with my scissor-man in Belfast, I found myself sitting in the Turkish barber’s in town.
It was so relaxing, being away for an hour from the busy house, just waiting. Lemon smells and distant music and the barbers chatting away amongst each other good-naturedly, with the men and boys scrolling on their phones.
By the time the young Syrian started shaving my neck, I was struggling to keep my eyes open. I had talked to him about what I wanted and everything was clear. Yeah, yeah, he said. Tapered in from the bottom of the neck, max number 4 round ears, trim fringe, and scissor-blend the rest.
I began to slumber, as though in a Californian vineyard, the bees making honey droning harmoniously with the clippers.
But when I woke up, I looked in the mirror and suddenly panicked. I seemed to have almost a skinhead at the bottom and a flappy Mohican on top. “What have you done? You’ve butchered me!”
Soon there was a whole handlin’, with the owner berating the young fella in high-pitched Arabic, him trying to defend himself, then pointing with his hands in forgiveness, and the owner refusing to take any money. Absolutely not. And me kind of sighing as I left.
Outside, I was debating whether the free haircut was actually a victory when I glimpsed my profile in a shop window. I looked like a Viking, and as I played with it, I thought it could even be okay tied up.
The chemist’s had a little section with toggles and I made a top-knot in a mirror, and a woman said “I like your hair”. She was younger than me and she just walked off, never looking back. I checked in the mirror again. I looked different. Modern. I stood out a mile here anyway so I wasn’t worried about that.
Then this old woman came over as I was getting into the car. She shouted my name but I didn’t recognise her and she had an envelope that she waved at me.
“You are the boy helped Brian with my fence. During the storm.”
I remembered fixing the fence with Genghis in the tempest all right and I remembered her name.
“Mrs Davison,” I said. “It’s great to meet you.”
When I woke up, I looked in the mirror and suddenly panicked. I seemed to have almost a skinhead at the bottom and a flappy Mohican on top
“This is for you.” She handed me the envelope and left. I shouted after her that there was no need for any thank you but she had vanished. I looked at the envelope. It said “Fabien the boy” and when I opened it, there was a £20 voucher for a little tea shop outside the town.
I got back to the car and headed home, and when the diesel light pinged I pulled into a garage along the road. But as I opened the door a strange thing happened. A lottery ticket wafted, slowly like a feather, onto my lap.
I lifted it and saw it this Saturday’s date and looked around. There was no-one there, never mind anyone looking for a ticket. I got the diesel and went into the shop, paid up and drove home, the lottery ticket silent as an ice-pick in my pocket.
“Daddy’s got a haircut, Mummy!” Fiadh screamed when she saw me.
“Take that rubber band out,” Fionnuala said, examining me closely. “It’s not that bad. It’ll be all right in two weeks. It quite suits you.”
And when I gave her Mrs Davison’s voucher she smiled warmly and said what a lovely woman.
But I had a far-away look, my mind limpited on to lustful thoughts about the ticket. I checked it when I was in the loo; the impending date began to fascinate me.
What if it was a winning ticket? Was it mine now? Would anyone know? Would whoever lost it go looking for it?
I flushed the toilet and decided to allow fate to play its hand and cross that bridge should I come to it...