Read Online Little Blue Lies by Chris Lynch - Free Book Online Page A

go, the old duffer still had to stoop to clip me.
    And an old duffer he was. Santo was an old man when I was four and twelve and fifteen, until he retired or whatever it was he did, but it didn’t matter because he always worked side by side with another old guy just like him—and two or three rotating other old guys when times were good and all four chairs were buzzing. Then he retired or whatever it was and he was replaced by another Santo, and it was like there was this workshop someplace where they just turned out replicate barber Santos, which suited everybody fine.
    And the place was never actually called Santo’s, because it was and still is officially called the Beachcomber Gentleman’s Barbershop. Perfectly named. Great big front windows as big as the mirror wall, and if you look to your right from one of the chairs, you get the most spectacular view of the beach, and if you look to your right to see the beach while getting your hair cut, Santo would always sharply grab the point of your chin and whip you back around to proper haircuttee position.
    Almost everybody who came into the place had sand in his hair, especially on a windy day, and this is possibly why allthe combs and clippers and hair tonics and whatever Santo would attack you with always had the grittiness.
    A gritty kind of place, to be sure.
    Because the smells of sand and salt and the seaside stuff and the smells of the barber business, circa 1927, always swirled together in the atmosphere of Santo’s in such a reliable balance as to suggest somebody on staff was tasked with the job of creating exactly this olfactory singularity. Singular. It exists nowhere else, I am certain.
    Also gritty because that’s how Santo’s sees itself. A little bit dangerous, a little bit fringes-of-society atmosphere is part of the charm of the place. Even if it’s not entirely believable, not always charming.
    â€œHeya, kid,” the old guy says, springing out of his chair on a quiet Monday morning.
    We’re all kids and we always will be. Kid, kidnik, kiddo, regardless. It was this way with the original Santo, and it is this way with Santo IV or whoever we have here.
    â€œThe kids, kid and kiddo,” he says, just as happily as if we were his actual grandchildren coming to see him for the first time in a year.
    â€œHey, Santo,” Malcolm says, giving the old boy a big hug. “I saw you, sitting there staring out at the waves.”
    â€œOf course I was staring out at the waves. They’re waves, for cryin’ out loud. They’re frickin’ beautiful. Does that makeme a bad person? I don’t think that makes me a bad person. First customers of the week, you kids. Sure I stare at the waves. Gets me in the mood, in the spirit, so I can do my best work. For you. All for you.”
    â€œHey, and we appreciate it. That’s why we come back, right?”
    â€œRight,” he says. “And what are we in for today?”
    I step up. Malcolm points at me with his thumb.
    â€œKiddo,” Santo says, taking me by the arm like I’m the little old guy and he is helping me into the chair, “how did you let it get like this?”
    Malcolm laughs out loud, throws himself into a chair with a newspaper and a good angle to see me in the mirror.
    Santo does this thing—I suppose the same thing a sculptor does when he starts on a project. He clips, a tiny bit, a nothing bit, then steps back and looks. Goes to a whole other part of the head, snips a clip, steps back, looks, tilts his head, looks, comes back in for more. Like he is waiting for the proper image to suggest itself to him, to emerge from the chaos that is my currently configured head.
    I forgot how long this takes.
    The step-backs get less frequent, the clippings more so, and something like progress is happening when the bell over the door clinks and I see the men swagger in.
    They are a type. Junie always hated it when I saw thingsthis way,