The Family Fang by Kevin Wilson

Author:Kevin Wilson
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3, pdf
Publisher: HarperCollins US
Published: 2011-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Buster sat in the barber’s chair, staring at a list of haircut styles that he had never heard of, while the barber waited impatiently, scissors at the ready. “I have no idea what these are,” Buster said, looking at the sign that held words like brush cut, burr, high and tight, D.A., dipped mushroom, teddy boy, and flattop boogie. “Tell me what you want,” the barber said, “and I’ll make that happen to your head.”

“Short, I guess,” he replied. “Not too short though.”

“Son,” the barber, nearly seventy years old, replied, “everything is short, that’s all I do. What kind of short?”

“Not too short,” Buster said, the smell of bay rum making him dizzy.

“Okay, tell me who you want to look like,” the barber then said.

“He wants to look like an intelligent man of considerable wealth,” his sister, sitting in the waiting area, offered.

The barber spun the chair thirty degrees and began to work. “You’re getting the Ivy League,” he said.

“I like the sound of that,” Buster said.

“You like football?” the barber asked.

“I don’t dislike it,” Buster responded, “but I don’t keep up with it.”

“Well then, if you don’t mind,” the man with the scissors said, “I’ll just cut the hair and we’ll dispense with the conversation.”

Less than fifteen minutes later, Buster looked like an Ivy League graduate. He smoothed his hand from the top of his head to the base of his neck, the way the hair tapered to almost nothing.

“You look good,” Annie offered.

“Handsome man,” the barber said.

After the fifteen-dollar transaction, Buster and Annie made to leave, but the barber gestured toward Annie and asked, “You want your hair cut, too?”

Annie touched her shoulder-length hair, looked at Buster, who actually did feel confident and composed with his new look, and shrugged. “What do you suggest?” she asked.

“You got a nice face, soft features,” he said. “I’ll crop it, make you look like Jean Seberg in Breathless.”

“I like the sound of that,” Annie said, and sat down in the chair.

Buster watched the way the barber’s hands moved quickly over his sister’s head, pulling his fingers through her hair, the scissors snipping in a precise rhythm, never stopping, no desire to take stock of the situation. Buster admired the skill, loved any action that seemed to be purely muscle memory, disconnected from the brain, which was something he could hardly fathom. His brain always interrupted the actions of his body, interjecting questions and concerns. For instance, right now, his neck itching, watching his sister’s hair pile up on the floor, he could not help but ask himself, “How the hell are we going to find Mom and Dad, and why the hell are we wasting time getting our hair cut?”

The haircuts had been Annie’s idea, yet another way in which they were capable people. If they looked the part, Annie reasoned, they would act accordingly. “It’s acting, Buster,” she said. “You dress the part and pretty soon, you are that person.”

“What person?” Buster had asked.

“The person who solves mysteries and doesn’t fuck things up,” she replied.

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