Tales From The Parish
It’s time for a trim for Father Okoli . . .
FATHER OKOLI looked at his reflection in the mirror. He had just turned forty and was still getting used to it.
Among the other clergy in his Cotswolds diocese, he was considered a whippersnapper, but in Nigeria, forty years counted as a venerable age. His own father had been a grandfather at forty.
He checked himself in the mirror.
A few curls had turned white on his temples and he could do with a haircut – he was going to dinner at Melinda’s house that evening.
The barber welcomed him warmly.
“Hello, Father. I’m Carlos, the Spanish barber of the village!” he declared.
“A pleasure to meet you.” Father was used to being greeted by people he didn’t know.
Carlos twirled on the heels of his leather boots and picked up a glossy photobook.
“What would you like?” “Nothing special. I’d just like it a little shorter than it is now.”
“A haircut to celebrate your birthday, right?” “How do you know?” “The village barber knows everything about everyone. Just like the village priest.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Father was amused.
“Take a seat,” Carlos said, turning the barber’s chair round for him.
Father wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to sit on it any more.
With a similar gesture to Spanish bullfighters, Carlos whipped a red cloth off a shelf and wrapped it round Father’s neck.
A shiver ran down his back as his gaze fell on a tray in front of him, containing a cut-throat razor.
I hope I’m not the bull, he thought to himself.
Carlos started snipping at his hair.
“Do you find that the people who come for confession the most are the ones who need it the least?” the barber asked. “Probably, yes.”
“It’s the same here. The people who need a haircut the most come the least often. Do you know why?”
“Some people need more reassurance than others that they are doing OK,” Father replied.
Carlos shook his head and his quiff quivered.
“No, Father. The haircut and the confession are only excuses.
“People come to us because they want to talk, and we listen to them. But who will listen to us? Who do you talk to, Father?” “God.”
“I mean, among our fellow humans.”
“Are you married, Carlos?”
“No. Where would I meet a woman? All my clients are men, and all the women in the village are either married or too young. It’s hopeless.” Father Okoli smiled. “Don’t give up. Keep your ears open, because God has his subtle ways.”
Carlos glanced at the clock on the wall.
“I hope you didn’t want a shave, too, Father. I’m short of time.”
“No, thank you,” Father replied, eyeing the cutthroat razor again.
“My next customer is new to the village and I don’t want to keep him waiting on his first appointment,” Carlos explained.
The door jingled and a woman and boy stepped inside. Carlos had finished Father’s haircut just in time.
“You must be Angus,” Carlos said to the little boy.
“Yes. I’m named after the singer of a band that my dad liked very much.”
“I know, Angus Young from AC/DC. I love them, too.” Carlos smiled. “Maybe your dad and I should meet.”
Carlos turned the chair towards the boy and Angus hopped on.
“You can’t, because he’s in heaven.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. He’s happy there,” the boy replied.
Father’s throat constricted with emotion and he glanced at the boy’s mother.
She still hadn’t said a word, but was smiling sweetly at her boy.
Suddenly, Father had a feeling that something marvellous was about to unfold in Carlos’s life and that God’s hand was at work right there, before his eyes.
“See you next time, Carlos,” he said as he left, making a mental note to come back for a haircut soon.
More next week.