The Haircut”
The bell above the barbershop door jingles faintly. A man walks in—weathered jacket, tired eyes, carrying the kind of silence that speaks louder than words.
Homeless Man (softly):
“Hey… excuse me, sir. I was just wonderin’ if maybe you could… clean me up a bit.”
The barber looks up. Pauses. Eyes scan the man—dirty nails, rough beard, shoes worn to the sole.
Homeless Man (quickly):
“I—I don’t have much. Just a couple bucks. Maybe not even enough for the full cut.
But I got a job interview tomorrow.
And I thought maybe if I looked a little less like what I’ve been through… I might stand a chance.”
The barber doesn’t speak at first. Just sets down the clippers, steps around the chair, and gestures gently.
Barber:
“Sit down, my friend.
You’re not the first soul to walk in here carryin’ more weight than money.”
The homeless man hesitates, eyes watering but holding it in. He takes the seat slowly, like it’s the first soft place he’s touched in months.
Barber (calmly):
“Let’s get you cleaned up. No charge.
Dignity’s free around here.”
