The Barber

She went in just for a trim—nothing dramatic, nothing meaningful. She had seen him before, the new barber with calm eyes and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but she never let him attend to her.

Until that day.

“Your turn,” he said with a quiet confidence that made her nervous for no real reason.

She sat. He draped the cape around her, fingers brushing her collarbone lightly. Maybe accidental. Maybe not.
The chair felt suddenly too big and too small at the same time.

He began cutting, slow and deliberate. His fingertips grazed her neck each time he adjusted her posture. She tried to keep her breath steady, but every stroke sent a small wave of warmth down her spine.

“You okay?” he asked, noticing her posture stiffen.

“Fine,” she lied.

But he already knew. The mirror gave her away—her cheeks warmer than before, her lips pressed together too tightly.

Then he leaned in to trim the edges behind her ear. His fingers steadied her jaw gently, brushing skin that hadn’t been touched in weeks. She closed her eyes for half a second too long.

When she opened them, he was looking at her reflection, not the scissors.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Cold hands.”

They both knew his hands weren’t cold.

When he finished, she stood up slower than usual, unsure why she felt lightheaded.

As she paid, he said, “You can come back anytime… if you’re not scared of my hands.”

She didn’t answer.

But she knew she would.

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