The barbers

At 6:42 on a rainy Thursday morning in London, Mrs Brand stood in the kitchen holding two mugs of coffee and the expression of a woman who had recently lost a battle with an online booking system.

Again.

“I’m telling you,” she said to nobody in particular, because Mr Brand was upstairs ironing a shirt while answering emails from someone called Derek who apparently thought “URGENT” was punctuation, “that salon hates children.”

She glared at her phone.

“No appointments for six weeks,” she muttered. “Six weeks! By then Barry will look like he’s in an indie band.”

From the living room came a crash.

Then Barry’s voice.

“I’m alright!”

Which, in parenting terms, usually meant: something expensive isn’t alright.

Barry Brand was powered almost entirely by curiosity, biscuits, and poor judgement. His hair had grown thick and wild over winter, curling around his ears and sticking out at angles that suggested static electricity or possibly demonic possession.

He appeared in the kitchen wearing one welly boot, a Spider-Man cape, and yoghurt on his forehead.

“Mummy,” he announced proudly, “I accidentally stood on the remote and now the television speaks Spanish.”

Mrs Brand closed her eyes for one long second.

“Wonderful.”

Behind Barry shuffled Marmaduke, his best friend from nursery, who was round for an early playdate before nursery drop-off. Marmaduke followed Barry the way shopping trolleys follow a broken wheel: helplessly and directly into danger.

Marmaduke’s fringe had somehow been glued upwards.

Mrs Brand didn’t ask.

She no longer asked.

Alfie entered next, fully dressed for school, carrying his reading book and looking like a tiny exhausted accountant.

Alfie was seven years old and had the permanent expression of someone deeply disappointed in local government. His hair, unfortunately, possessed two violent cowlicks and a stubborn crown swirl that required barbering precision usually reserved for restoring Renaissance paintings.

“One side is sticking up again,” he informed his mother gravely.

“Yes, darling.”

“If they cut it too short, I’ll look ridiculous.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I won’t.”

Mr Brand finally came downstairs, tying his tie one-handed.

“That’s it,” he declared. “I’m taking them to Tony’s Barbers tomorrow morning.”

Mrs Brand blinked.

“The cheap one near the station?”

“Yep. Opens at seven.”

“The one with football on every television and men called Dave arguing about Arsenal?”

“That’s the one.”

She looked uncertain.

“Will they manage Barry?”

Mr Brand laughed in the manner of a man who did not yet understand the scale of the challenge ahead.

“Oh, it’s a haircut, not a hostage negotiation.”

---

At precisely 6:58 the next morning, Mr Brand marched through damp London streets holding Barry’s hand while Alfie walked beside him carrying emergency snacks “in case Barry causes delays.”

Marmaduke had insisted on coming too because Barry had told him there might be “hair robots.”

There were not.

Tony’s Barbers sat squeezed between a vape shop and a suspiciously empty carpet store. The sign buzzed faintly overhead.

Inside smelled of aftershave, coffee, and regret.

Three barbers stood chatting beside spinning chairs while morning news rolled silently on a mounted television.

One barber looked up.

“Morning, mate.”

Mr Brand smiled with the confidence of a man who had forgotten history.

“Morning. Just the boys.”

All three barbers looked at Barry.

Barry looked back like a raccoon considering arson.

Alfie climbed neatly into a chair first.

“Short on the sides,” Mr Brand instructed carefully, “but leave enough on top because of the crown.”

The barber nodded seriously.

“Ahh. Double cowlick.”

Alfie looked impressed.

“Finally,” he whispered, “a professional.”

Meanwhile Barry had discovered the spray bottle.

PSSHT.

He sprayed Marmaduke directly in the face.

Marmaduke screamed.

Not because it hurt.

Just because he enjoyed screaming.

“Barry,” warned Mr Brand.

“Sorry.”

PSSHT.

This time Barry sprayed a mirror.

One barber quietly removed all scissors from nearby surfaces.

Alfie’s haircut began beautifully. Tiny snips. Calm precision. The barber tilted Alfie’s head carefully like a museum curator handling priceless pottery.

Alfie sat perfectly still.

Barry stared in horror.

“They’re cutting him.”

“It’s alright,” said Mr Brand.

“He’s very brave.”

Barry narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

Then he spotted the clippers.

The barber switched them on.

BZZZZZZZ.

Barry gasped.

Marmaduke gasped because Barry gasped.

Barry climbed under a waiting bench.

“No thank you.”

Mr Brand crouched.

“Barry, come out.”

“No.”

“You need your haircut.”

“I already have hair.”

“That’s the issue.”

One barber offered Barry a lollipop.

Barry accepted it.

Then remained under the bench.

Another barber tried diplomacy.

“You can sit on Dad’s lap?”

“No.”

“We’ll only trim a little?”

“No.”

“No clippers?”

Barry considered.

Then pointed dramatically at the buzzing machine.

“It sounds evil.”

Marmaduke nodded furiously.

“It does sound evil.”

The oldest barber, Tony himself, emerged from the back sipping espresso from a tiny cup. He surveyed the scene with the weary wisdom of a man who had once probably cut hair during blackouts, riots, and at least one stag do gone terribly wrong.

“Leave him to me.”

Tony crouched beside the bench.

“You know,” he said quietly to Barry, “I used to cut footballers’ hair.”

Barry peeked out.

“Real footballers?”

“Course.”

“Did they cry?”

“Constantly.”

Barry considered this deeply.

Tony continued.

“One fella screamed when I trimmed his sideburns. Full adult man.”

Barry slowly crawled out.

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Very embarrassing.”

Mr Brand stared suspiciously. There was absolutely no chance this story was true.

But Barry emerged fully.

Tony pointed at the chair.

“Tell you what. You sit there like a brave lad, and I’ll make you look sharper than your dad.”

“Dad already looks sharp,” said Alfie loyally.

Mr Brand looked touched.

“Like a disappointed PE teacher,” Alfie clarified.

Less touching.

Barry climbed into the chair cautiously.

Tony draped the cape around him.

Barry froze.

Then he handed it solemnly to Marmaduke.

His eyes widened.

“I can’t move.”

“You can,” said Tony.

Barry tested one arm dramatically.

“Oh.”

Tony began carefully with scissors.

Snip.

Barry twitched.

Snip.

Barry ducked sideways.

Tony adjusted expertly.

Snip.

Barry sneezed.

Hair flew everywhere.

Marmaduke laughed so hard he fell off the bench.

For one miraculous minute, things actually went well.

Then Tony picked up the clippers.

BZZZZZZ.

Barry vanished.

Not metaphorically.

One second he was in the chair.

The next he had somehow wriggled entirely out of the cape and sprinted behind the counter screaming:

“THE BEE MACHINE IS COMING!”

Marmaduke screamed too, mostly out of solidarity.

One customer lowered his newspaper.

Another muttered, “Fair enough, honestly.”

Mr Brand rubbed his forehead.

“Barry…”

But Barry had already found a packet of jelly beans behind the till.

“Oh look,” he said brightly. “Treasure.”

“Put those back.”

Barry handed one to Marmaduke.

Marmaduke immediately ate it.

Tony sighed.

“I’ve seen worse.”

“How?” asked Mr Brand.

Tony pointed at a framed photograph on the wall showing twin boys climbing shelving units.

“Those are my sons.”

“Ah.”

“Once shaved a racing stripe into the dog.”

“Right.”

Eventually a compromise was reached.

No clippers near Barry’s ears.

Tiny scissor trims only.

Frequent biscuit breaks.

And Mr Brand had to sit in the barber chair wearing the cape first “to prove survival.”

Barry watched carefully as Tony trimmed Mr Brand’s neck.

“You’re not dead,” Barry admitted.

“Exactly.”

Barry relaxed slightly.

Ten more minutes passed.

Snip.

Snip.

Wriggle.

Snack.

Threat.

Negotiation.

At one point Barry asked for “a pirate haircut.”

Nobody knew what that meant.

At another point Marmaduke attempted to cut his own fringe using imaginary scissors because “it looked fun.”

Alfie nearly fainted.

Finally, somehow, the haircut ended.

Tony spun the chair around.

Barry stared at himself in the mirror.

His curls were shorter. His ears visible again. He looked cleaner, tidier, and approximately eighteen percent less feral.

Barry touched his hair.

“I look like a little businessman.”

“You do,” said Tony.

Barry frowned.

“I don’t like businessmen.”

“That’s fair.”

Alfie inspected his own haircut next.

Perfect.

His cowlicks behaved.

The crown sat flat.

He looked deeply relieved.

“Excellent work,” he told the barber formally, like a duke approving architecture.

Mr Brand paid while Barry discovered the rotating barber pole outside.

“Why is it swirly?” Barry asked.

“No idea,” admitted Mr Brand.

Barry nodded thoughtfully.

“Probably magic.”

Outside, London was waking properly now. Buses groaned past. Office workers marched along with coffees and tragic expressions.

Barry skipped beside his dad happily.

Then stopped.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Did I do a good haircut?”

Mr Brand smiled.

“You survived a haircut. That’s practically a miracle.”

Barry beamed proudly.

Then Marmaduke threw up jelly beans into a drain.

Everyone paused.

“You alright?” asked Alfie.

Marmaduke nodded weakly.

“I ate too many treasure sweets.”

“Reasonable consequence,” said Alfie.

Back home, Mrs Brand stared at the boys in amazement.

“Oh my goodness.”

Alfie stood proudly.

Barry struck a pose.

“I’m a businessman now.”

Mrs Brand laughed.

“You both look lovely!”

Barry leaned closer.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“I was extremely brave.”

Mr Brand snorted so loudly tea nearly came out of his nose.

Tony had apparently slipped a lolly into Barry’s pocket during checkout, and Barry now discovered it triumphantly.

“What’s this?”

“A reward,” said Mr Brand.

Barry gasped.

“For surviving the bee machine?”

“Yes.”

Barry looked thoughtful.

“Here. You need energy after your vomiting.”

Marmaduke accepted gratefully.

Alfie watched Barry and Marmaduke quietly for a moment.

Then sighed.

“You know,” he said to his parents, “one day Barry will probably get arrested.”

Mrs Brand blinked.

“Alfie!”

“What? Not for anything huge. Probably accidentally.”

Barry looked delighted.

“What’s arrested?”

“No idea,” said Marmaduke immediately.

“Excellent,” said Barry.