FICTION
The Gentleman's Cut
You have to understand what this flyer was promising me. It was promising the barbershop of yesteryear — not Kepler’s, which was the barbershop of actual yesteryear and smelled like Barbicide and Ronnie’s boat dreams — but the idea of yesteryear. The one from the ads. Leather and wood and a man calling you “sir” while another man racked the balls. I was a salon convert, sure, but somewhere in me lived a guy who wanted a hot towel and a beer and SportsCenter, and that guy had been reading this flyer for a month.
