The brass bell above the door chimed when we pushed it open, a sound that usually brought Tony spinning around with a grin. Today, the silver clippers on his counter always had a drop of green oil near the blade, but they were dry. A new pair of hands held them.
Tony stood near his usual chair, his yellow cloth moving over the heavy steel blades of his shears. He gave his familiar hearty laugh when we walked in, but his eyes did not stay on mine. He looked past me, out toward the gravel parking lot where my old sedan was parked.
“Megan, this is Marcus,” Tony said, his voice booming through the small shop. “He is taking the second chair now. Just started Tuesday.”
Marcus was twenty-nine, wearing a dark leather apron. He did not smile, but his fingers tapped a fast, quiet rhythm against the stiff leather. He looked at Ethan, then down at his own boots, then back at his clippers.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, slowly choosing my words.
I twisted my wedding ring twice around my finger, a habit that always returned when the room felt too small.
Ethan, who was nine, ran his hand along the red vinyl arm of the empty barber chair. His laces were untied, and he was humming a song he had learned at school. He looked eager to climb into the chair, his small boots kicking the metal footrest.
“Up you go, buddy,” Marcus said.
His voice was clipped and short. He did not offer Ethan a booster seat, though Ethan was small for nine. He simply guided him by the shoulder, his touch light but firm.
Ethan climbed up, his sneakers dangling six inches above the metal footrest. He tugged at his shirt collar, his eyes darting to the mirror.
“Just the usual?” Marcus asked, not looking at me.
“Yes, please,” I said. “Keep it off his collar. His father always liked it clean in the back.”
I took my seat on the low vinyl bench near the coat rack. The smell of peppermint hair tonic was strong, but beneath it was the smell of damp coats.
The fluorescent lights overhead hummed a low, steady note that made the back of my neck itch. The white tubes flickered once, casting a cold glare over the glass jars of blue sanitizer on the counter.
Tony went back to sweeping gray curls from the floor, but he kept his head down. Usually, he asked about Ryan’s old truck or how the garden was doing. He knew everyone in Oak Creek, and he usually had three stories about the high school football team before we even sat down.
Today, the shop was quiet except for the hum of the lights and the click of the shears.
Marcus flipped the switch on the black clippers. The loud vibration filled the space between us.
Ethan sat very still, his eyes locked on his own reflection. He liked the clippers usually, saying they felt like a tiny lawnmower on his neck.
Marcus worked quickly, his fingers moving with a cold precision that did not match Tony’s easy manner. He cleared the soft hair around Ethan’s neck in three long strokes, the black plastic comb guiding the metal teeth of the machine.
Then he moved to the left side, just behind the ear.
The clippers stopped.
The silence in the shop felt sudden and heavy. Marcus stayed bent over, his face inches from Ethan’s temple. He did not move his hand, keeping the cold metal of the turned-off clippers resting against Ethan’s skin.
“Marcus?” I asked.
He did not answer me right away. He tapped his fingers against his leather apron, his eyes fixed on the skin behind Ethan’s ear. He breathed in deeply, his shoulders rising under the leather straps.
“Is everything all right?” I asked, leaning forward on the bench.
Tony stopped sweeping. He did not look at us, but his broom remained still against the floorboards. He seemed to be listening to the silence.
Marcus cleared his throat and stepped back, his clippers still silent in his hand.
“Just a mole,” Marcus said, his voice dropping. “I wanted to be careful not to nick it.”
“He does not have a mole there,” I said.
I stood up from the bench, my boots squeaking against the linoleum. I walked two steps closer to the chair, trying to see past Marcus’s shoulder.
Ethan pulled his head down, his chin touching his chest. He did not look at me in the mirror. He kept his eyes locked on the black cape draped over his knees.
“My mistake,” Marcus said, his hand moving again. “Just a bit of dry skin.”
He turned the clippers back on, but his stroke was different now, lighter and faster. He did not go near the left ear again, focusing instead on the right side and the top, his fingers moving with an urgent haste.
Marcus brushed the loose hair from Ethan’s neck with a soft brush. He did not use the peppermint tonic, though it was sitting right there on the shelf.
“All done, young man,” Marcus said, unclipping the striped cape.
Ethan jumped down immediately, not waiting for my nod. He ran toward the door, his laces trailing behind him.
“Go wait by the front glass, Ethan,” I said. “Let me pay Marcus.”
Ethan ran to the front of the shop, his sneakers squeaking on the tiles near the glass door. He stood with his forehead pressed against the glass, looking out at the street.
I reached into my purse and pulled out a ten and a five. A haircut was fifteen dollars, a price Tony had kept for five years.
Marcus took the bills but did not put them in the register. He held them in his palm, his leather apron creasing as he leaned closer to me over the counter.
“Look behind his left ear,” Marcus whispered.
His voice was so low I had to lean in to hear him over the hum of the lights.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“Look behind his left ear, somewhere private, and do it now,” he said.
He did not look at me as he spoke. He turned his back and began wiping his shears with a clean white cloth, his fingers tapping the metal handles.
“Why?” I asked, my finger finding my wedding ring again. “Did you cut him?”
“Just do it,” he said.
He walked toward the back room without looking back, the bead curtain rattling behind him.
Tony stood by the register, his yellow cloth tight in his fist, his eyes fixed on the street outside. He did not look at me when I stepped up to the counter.
“Have a good weekend, Megan,” Tony said, his booming voice sounding flat and tired.
I did not answer him. I took Ethan’s hand and pulled him out into the cold October morning, the paper receipt still crumpled in my palm.
The winter boots in the entryway closet clattered when Ethan kicked his shoes off, the heavy rubber soles banging against the wooden door.
“Sit at the table, Ethan,” I said, my voice too sharp.
“I want to go play,” he said, his voice rising in a rapid burst. “Jimmy is outside and he has his new bike and he said we could go to the creek before lunch.”
“The table, Ethan. Now.”
He sat on the wooden chair, his legs swinging back and forth, hitting the rungs with a dull rhythmic thud. He did not look at me, instead focusing on a scratch on the yellow formica.
I stood behind him, the morning sun coming through the window, showing the dust motes in the air. The kitchen was cold, the heater not yet clicked on for the midday cycle.
“Keep still,” I said.
I parted his thick, dark hair behind his left ear, my fingers cold against his warm skin.
At first, I saw nothing but his pale skin, smooth and clean. Then I felt it.
My thumb brushed against something hard and artificial.
It was a small, round patch, the exact color of his skin, stuck fast to the bone right behind his earlobe. It was perfectly circular, about the size of a dime, blending almost seamlessly into his hairline.
“Don’t,” Ethan said, pulling away.
“Hold still, Ethan.”
I used my fingernail to catch the edge of the patch. It peeled away with a tiny clicking sound, like tape lifting from cardboard.
Underneath the flesh-colored plastic was a tiny black disc.
It had a hard, metallic edge that felt freezing cold against my skin. The metal was dark, almost matching the color of his hair, with a small silver pinhead in the center.
“Where did you get this?” I asked, holding it between my fingers.
Ethan stopped swinging his legs. He tugged at his shirt collar, his eyes fixed on the yellow formica of the table.
“It is just a game,” he murmured, his voice dropping low.
I looked down at the tiny object in my palm. It was no larger than a shirt button, but it was heavy, made of black plastic and steel.
“Who gave this to you, Ethan?”
He did not answer. He stared at the floor, his small hand still holding his collar tight.
