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  • Writer's pictureFauze Hassen

I think, therefore I struggle

I went to the barber shop and asked for a haircut like Brad Pitt on the film Seven, "Detective Mills to be more precise" I said confidently trusting the barber's film-buff skills. The barber looked at me intrigued, a thousand thoughts going through his big middle-aged skull. He shook his head in disagreement and said loudly in a husky voice "I do no Brad Pitt hair cuts no more". Taken aback I thought he was joking "Pardon me?" I replied firmly, looking into his feverish eyes, red and yellow and white. The barber continued "I said I do no Brad Pitt haircuts in this establishment no more, I am a postmodern hair master". Challenged by his hair philosophy abracadabra postmodernist bullshit, I lost my nerve "Listen you, I pay you 20$ and I can get whatever haircut I wish, so you better give me a Detective Mills from the film Seven haircut pronto". I felt proud as the last words left my fat greasy lips. The barber moved slowly toward me, I could smell his coffee breath as he brought his wobbly body right in front of my face. He leaned even closer and touched my hair in a gentle manner with his left hand. "Your hair ain't good for a Brad Pitt haircut anyway, even if I wanted to, it simply would not work with that type of hair" he said firmly, like he was giving me a TED Talk on hair texture and its correlation with artificial intelligence and quantum mechanics as a new religion. 'Well, fuck you and your primitive manners" I replied as I punched his stomach as hard as I could with my right fist in a coward, unexpected attack. The words "I will take my fucking business elsewhere" echoed in the air as the poor barber fell down on his knees; I walked out of the shop, watching my reflection as I stepped past the sets of mirrors in glorified manner. "Wait a minute" said the barber as he caught his breath, turning his figure toward me. "I can..." he paused confidently as he faced me in the eyes. "I can give you a Brad Pitt haircut, I mean the one from the movie". Those words slowed my pace, regained my attention. "Just don't tell anybody you had your hair done here, just don't talk about it okay?". I nodded in agreement thinking he might as well slice my throat open with his scissors in a revenge move for the punch I gave him. "I won't tell anyone" I said firmly, looking down at him, still on his knees. For a brief moment, a fraction of space-time within my existence, I thought I was the toughest man alive. I sat on the red fake-leather chair, had my clothes covered with a soft light blue cloth smelling of baby powder, and the man I had just punched worked on my hair for forty five minutes - buzzing and trimming and brushing and applying products and sprays onto my hair and then working some more. When I finally looked at the mirror the world changed, I was another man. I glanced over turning my head toward the barber and back at the mirror several time. Our eyes met in the mirror, our reflections stood still and we remained silent, just listening to the ceiling fan and the cars in the distance outside and it all made sense for a moment.


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