TheBarber BillFurlong

BILL was not a fast mover, but when he saw that the quiet youngster was waiting patiently to go in, he turned on his heel with pace, and called out. ‘Can someone make room for this young fella?’ The four gummy men who were busy putting powder on their false teeth, pushed in towards the two sinks to let him by to the toilet. They were getting ready to board the bus for Our Lady’s Island, where they would need secure teeth to blow their wind instruments properly.

The septuagenarian and the youngster developed a friendship from then on. Age didn’t matter; each had something that the other one wanted, and were glad to share.

Bill was no musician, and had no ambition to be one, but was always on the lookout for purpose. He had come to the realisation that purpose, doesn’t just come to older people, they have to seek it. Now he was happily bashing the cymbals at the rear of the Confraternity Brass and Reed Band, while his young friend played the clarinet a couple of rows up ahead.

The youngster had just reached the age of 14, and switched from Mario Lanza to The Beatles, changing his hairstyle in tandem. Now he was having a problem maintaining the mop of hair that it cultivated. The barbers in town couldn’t be trusted, so he decided to cut it himself. There were plenty of sharp scissors lying around the house; his Ma was a dressmaker, among many other things. But like all the damp bathrooms in town, it was hard see in their fogged-up mirror. Bill sympathised. ‘If you want, ye can come up to the barber shop and cut your own hair.’

The content of Bill’s little barber shop could be seen from the street. Two sturdy, silver and red leather swivel chairs faced two tall mirrors above a narrow shelf adorned with blue and red hair oils, talcum powder, scissor jars, and electric clippers.

With one hand on a client’s shoulder, Bill stopped cutting and turned to greet his young friend. A low size man with a mop of tidy grey hair flopping above horn rimmed glasses; he delighted in the youngster’s fortitude. ‘There ye are,’ he giggled. ‘ Go ahead, that’s your chair over there.’

Bill was taken with the youngster’s fascination for photography too, and wanted to try it himself. ‘What’s the best camera?’

‘Minolta Autocord. Two and a quarter inch negatives, twin reflex.’

Bill chuckled at the expediency of his reply.

‘Whatever you think. Shur I’ll order it from Hassett’s.’

When Bill got the camera a week later, he couldn’t get the leather case off to put the film in. So, up rushed the youngster, to see what the problem was. Bill had lost his patience and cut through the leather with one of his sharp razors. It was a tricky enough design, but the younger mind was up to its trickery; he was dealing with dysfunctional beauty all the time in the modern world.

The key was a little button disguised as a tiny silver connection between the belt and camera, when pressed the connection let go, and the belt slipped off.

‘Oh that’s fantastic, you can attach the strap to the camera, the strap only attaches to the case on mine.’ It annoyed him that they had already bettered the design. Bill picked his camera up and said ‘Swop shur, I don’t care about that.’

They each had something the other one wanted, and were willing to share. The disparity of time had created that commodity, and they reveled in it.