Chapter 2
There is something strangely pleasant about the specific combination of scents and sounds permeating the barber’s.
In the past decade, I’ve not missed an appointment. On the first Monday of every month, I’m greeted with the exact same words. Same cadence. Same song.
“Good morning, Mr. Balfour! Nice to see you on this fine day,” Desmond, my barber, chirps.
Like a perfectly choreographed dance, I respond with, “Very well, thank you. And how do you do today?”
“Very well! A shave and a trim as usual, Mr. Balfour?” he starts as always, but then his response takes an unexpected turn. “It must have been a long month, eh?”
Could a month be longer than usual?
Before I can question the fallacies of time, my hand reaches toward my hair. It’s grown substantially in the past four weeks. The edges nearly curl around my ears. Yet, something makes me change my usual answer.
“Just the shave, today. Thank you.”
I observe a flicker across Desmond’s face.
Is it so peculiar for me to decline the customary trim?
Do I look so improper already? But before I can think further, the familiar dance resumes.
My coat and hat are taken first. Then I’m ushered to my favourite chair, the one with the knick on the left side, sat atop it, and draped in a brilliantly white cloth.
The barber gathers his well-used accoutrements, and I prepare for the time-honoured natter while he whips the soap to a lather.
“Found anything interesting last month?” he asks.
“Not this time, I’m afraid.”
“That’s a proper shame, I say. And with a fellow as adept as you. A real pity.” He nods as if he was an expert in the field himself.
I wonder why he thinks me adept. Even though he’s held my custom for so long, the man hardly knows anything about me at all. Pleasantries, after all, don’t make for riveting and intimate relations.
He tips the chair back until I’m almost horizontal, and after a moment, he approaches with a steaming towel.
This will be hot, I say to myself seconds before he utters the exact same phrase. I close my eyes and welcome the warmth seeping into my skin.
He proceeds with the shave in the usual fashion. As he already knows my preferences, I can relax and listen to the chittering of the other people in the room.
“Have you seen the latest Arbuckle picture?” a man with a deep voice bellows a bit too loudly.
“I’m a Chaplin fan myself. His being from here after all,” another answers.
“Do you like him only because of his fromness or also because he’s amusing?”
“I would say I find him rather funny. I mean, the gags are more to my tastes.”
“I’m an Arbuckle man myself. Always have been, and most likely always will be,” the deep-voiced man says as if he was the centrepiece of the room.
“Very nice. And what was this marvellous picture about?” the Chaplin fan inquires.
“About a nurse. Well, more like a butcher,” he guffaws. “A young new actor. Very funny, and all while splattered in blood.”
An image flashes before me: a handsome face. Strong jaw. Big eyes. A sharp profile. Dark stains litter a white apron. My pulse rises, and I feel my face flush with heat.
I look around, wondering if the men noticed my reaction.
I wish the lather was still covering my face, but the more I think about this man, this actor, the tighter I feel. I try to distract myself. Focus on the blade scratching across my throat. I suppress the urge to swallow. To open my mouth and–
I’m certain they must have noticed. Surely, they are only continuing the conversation until I leave the room, just to jeer at me behind my back. To call me a degenerate. An affront to society.
“All done!”
I flinch at the sudden words. Desmond looks at me, puzzled.
“Are you sure you’d rather have no trim today?” he asks.
I shake my head, suddenly unable to utter a single word. What is the matter with me?
“Are you well, sir? You look like death warmed up.” His hands hover over my shoulder, not yet touching.
“I’m fine,” I finally press out, but my barber doesn’t seem convinced. “I’m very well, thank you,” I add.
Desmond steps back. Without a word, he slides the apron off with expert movements, not a single hair ruffled. Not even my tie made askew.
I stand up and grab my hat and coat with trembling hands.
“Come again soon, Mr. Balfour,” Desmond says in his usual cheery tone after receiving his payment. I nod my agreement, forcing my mouth into a jovial smile, but I know I will never return to this barber again.
I forego my usual stroll through the park. Instead, I hail a motor cab and head straight home without delay. I sit on my hands, hoping this will stop the trembling. I name every passing street silently. Halfway there, my pulse finally slows.
At my portico steps, I realise I forgot my keys on my bedside table. I feel embarrassed ringing the bell like a visitor. This has never happened to me before. I’m not the forgetful sort.
The door opens silently, revealing Godfrey behind it. Is there a look of surprise on his usually controlled features? He steps aside to let me in, then checks his pocket watch.
“Has anything occurred?” A hint of concern tints his words.
“No, I just…” How was I to explain this deviance from my usual routine? I was always so regular. So predictable. “I’m a little tired, that’s all.”
“Shall I call for tea, or would you rather rest first?”
“I’ll just rest. Thank you.”
“Very well,” he says, closing the door behind me.
I take three steps at a time, locking my bedroom door behind me. I pace to the window and back. Then in small circles. How did I slip like that? Losing composure like a schoolboy. And in public, of all places.
I have a system. A well-practiced facade. It always works. For forty-six years, it’s worked. So what changed? Why today?
I distractedly remove my tie and drop it to the side.
My coat follows next. It lands in a corner with a quiet thump.
I feel anomalous. My breath escapes as if forced through a coil.
My skin is the wrong size. I open the window, hoping the fresh air might help, but the feeling doesn’t subside.
I remove my shoes, garters, and hose. Strip every artificial layer I so carefully planned to fit in. To look ordinary.
I shed it all until I’m left pacing in my shirt. I feel utterly ridiculous, roaming my own bedroom like a caged beast. Yet this strange feeling doesn’t subside. I pace for what seems like hours until I frustratedly shut the window and draw the curtains closed.
Still, my chest tightens further.
I tear my shirt off. I want to scream.
What is the matter with me? There is no reason for anger. The blunder at the barber’s was not enough to perturb me this much. What was this strange sensation gripping my being?
I burrow myself in my bed, hoping for relief. But the linens scrape like sandpaper across my skin. I toss them to the ground until I lie bare and alone on the mattress, scowling at the ceiling like a petulant child. I stare and stare as if I’m in a competition I can never win.
Suddenly, a knock on the door rouses me from sleep.
“What?” I growl.
No response comes but the sound of the knob being turned. The door, though, remains shut.
“Why are you bothering me? Can’t I have privacy in this house?” I shout loud enough to be heard on the other side.
“Excuse me, my lord, but I was concerned.” The voice comes through quietly.
I stand up, noticing I’m utterly nude. “Can’t I simply rest for a few hours?”
“It has been a day and a half, my lord. I was worried you might have taken ill.” Godfrey’s usually composed demeanour cracks at the edges.
A day and a half? How is this possible? I’m certain I only slept for maybe an hour. I approach the window. It’s still light out, maybe late afternoon, clearly many hours away from dusk. A quiet knock draws me back into the room.
Slipping on my dressing robe, I open the door. On the other side, Godfrey looks at me with a face full of concern. This is the most expressive I’ve seen him since I was a child.
“I’m sorry to bother you, my lord. I was simply…” he starts.
I interrupt him with an, “I’m fine.” I cross my arms over my chest, feeling strangely caught.
“Are you certain you are well, sir?”
Why is he suddenly so insistent?
“Of course, I am. Do I not look well?” I ask.
His face makes it clear that I certainly do not look well at all. When I run a hand through my hair, I feel it sticking up all over my head.
Godfrey’s voice quiets. “Shall I bring your supper?”
“If you like.”
The moment I answer, he turns on his heels and leaves without a word. Just by the manner of his gait, I realise my tone was out of line. I must remember to apologise for my behaviour once he returns.
I head to the lavatory, and when I look in the mirror, I understand Godfrey’s concerns.
I do not look well. Not exactly unwell, either. I simply do not look entirely myself. Like one of those wax figures in the museum. Almost like me, but not quite.
I don’t think I’ve ever looked this dishevelled in my life.
My hair is rumpled and curling, my jaw dark with shadow.
I lean closer, trying to comb my hair with my fingers.
There is something new in my eyes. An almost violent glimmer.
A twinkle, not of mirth but, rather, something feral. Something old. I blink.
Startled, I nearly stumble back over my own feet.
My chest is heaving when I turn the tap to drown my face in icy water.
It was just a vision, I tell myself. A sleep-induced dream. Hunger pangs. That’s it. Just hungry. All very ordinary things.
Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes once more. A relieved gasp escapes me when all I see is my very ordinary and plain face.
Nothing new.
Nothing odd.
Just in complete disarray. And disarray can be dealt with.
With my fingers doing little to tame my hair, I wet my comb, but my pomade is too stiff, and softening it again would take more effort than I would like.
The blood-hued Macassar whispers promises I know it can’t keep, and I wonder if it would be easier to just shower.
But Godfrey’s nearly imperceptible return stops the thought.
I’ll have to make do with a quick shave instead.
Gathering my soap, I watch Godfrey through the mirror. He’s picking up loose garments strewn about the room. Embarrassment fills me as I realise it was I who tossed those clothes all about.
What overcame me to do such a thing? Not even as a child…
I shake my head, focusing on shaving instead of being driven further into shame. Finally, he picks up my shoes and leaves the room.
When I sit down to eat my afternoon tea, I remember the restlessness that took hold of me only last night. I try to think of any ailments that could be causing this sort of behaviour.
Perhaps it’s an odd degeneration of the mind. Am I going mad? Or maybe it’s a kind of fever. I touch a hand to my brow, but my temperature seems perfectly fine. I do not feel ill. Nonetheless, I’m certain something is occurring, yet I have no notion of what it could possibly be.
There must be a perfectly simple explanation. There always is.