Youngs Bay Barbershop

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.