Chapter 1: The Barber's Suggestion
The bell above the door of Voss’s Barbershop jingled with a tired, metallic sound. John Mitchell stepped inside, the familiar scent of bay rum and old leather wrapping around him like a second skin. It was a smell that spoke of routine, of every-other-Saturday mornings for the last eight years.
The shop was silent except for the low, electric hum coming from the single occupied chair where old Mr. Hemmings was getting a shave, his face obscured by a hot towel. Adam Voss stood behind his counter, wiping a pair of silver shears with a slow, methodical cloth. He didn’t look up.
“Be with you in a moment, John.”
His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder. John simply nodded, though Adam wasn’t looking, and took a seat on the worn vinyl bench against the wall. He studied the floor tiles, the faded patterns of ships and anchors, cracked in places. The mirror behind the counter was foggy at the edges, as if the reflections from thirty years ago had never quite cleared.
A few minutes later, the towel came off Mr. Hemmings, and with a soft grunt and a nod, the old man was gone. The bell jingled again.
“Your turn,” Adam said, still not looking up from his careful wiping.
John slid into the cracked leather chair. It sighed under his weight, a tired exhalation. The vinyl headrest was cool against his neck. Adam flicked the striped cape with a sharp snap of his wrists before draping it over John, the weight of it strangely final.
“Just a trim today, Adam. Same as always. Maybe take a little off the sides.”
“Mmm.”
Adam didn’t answer with words, just that sound from deep in his chest. His hands, broad and strong, with scars and nicks across the knuckles, settled on John’s shoulders for a moment, assessing. He picked up his comb and scissors. The first snip was loud in the quiet room. A lock of John’s plain brown hair drifted down to the cape.
Adam worked in silence for a minute, the only sounds the crisp closing of the blades and the soft scratch of the comb. Then he stopped.