November sun lit up my friends’ veranda on an unseasonably warm afternoon.
Youngs Bay barely moved in the distance.
Three kinds of clouds segregated themselves in the sky.
I brought out a stool from inside the house and set it up on the concrete. I hung up my corduroy coat on a piece of beaverwood.
I sat on the stool.
My friend wrapped a towel around my neck and chest.
A gull flew overhead.
I called for scotch and it materialized in seconds.
My friend took out some beard grooming tools and proceeded to trim my beard. I was going to shave it off but was talked out of it by my friend, now my ad hoc barber.
As the barber trimmed and clipped, a little dog came over to me. He was obviously curious.
I sipped my scotch and took in the view.
I got up to check the barber’s handiwork in the mirror, Not bad. The barber touched it up here and there and I was soon sporting a tidy, appearance, with just a smidgen of mountain man and angst-ridden writer thrown in for good measure.
The work was completed and I got off the stool, donned my coat, drank some more scotch, and played with the dog. Another customer sat on the stool and a another gull flew overhead.
Quite the barber shop.