The first thing Marcus noticed when he walked into the barbershop was the scent of aftershave and warm shaving cream, mingling with the faint musk of worn leather from the waiting chairs. It was a familiar smell, one that carried memories of Saturdays spent with his father, waiting patiently for their turn under the careful hands of Mr. Rollins, the shop’s original owner.
But today was different.
Marcus hadn’t been in for a cut in months, and the evidence was plain: unruly curls creeping past his ears, an overgrown beard making him look older than his twenty-eight years. He had been busy—too busy, he had told himself. Work, relationships, life. The usual excuses. But deep down, he knew the real reason. It was the same reason his father’s old chair sat empty in their family home, the same reason his mother still set an extra plate at dinner, even though she knew no one would sit there.
Grief had a way of tangling itself into the smallest routines, of turning something as simple as a haircut into a painful reminder of loss. His father had passed away nearly a year ago, and yet, every time he thought of stepping into the barbershop, an invisible weight settled on his chest, making it impossible to move forward.
“Marcus,” a voice called, pulling him from his thoughts.
He looked up and saw DeAndre, the shop’s new owner, waving him over to an open chair. DeAndre had taken over after Mr. Rollins retired, bringing fresh energy into the space while still keeping the traditions alive. Marcus had known him growing up, though they had never been particularly close.
“Been a minute,” DeAndre said with a grin, draping the cape over Marcus’s shoulders. “You letting the wilderness take over or what?”
Marcus chuckled, running a hand through his thick hair. “Something like that.”
DeAndre didn’t push for more. Instead, he adjusted the clippers and got to work. The familiar hum filled the air, a steady vibration that settled Marcus’s nerves. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds around him—the low chatter of customers, the occasional bursts of laughter, the rhythmic snip of scissors. It was comforting in a way he hadn’t expected.
“You still working at that design firm?” DeAndre asked, his voice casual as he shaped the back of Marcus’s head.
“Yeah,” Marcus replied. “Been keeping busy.”
“Good, good. Gotta stay focused.”
Marcus nodded but said nothing. He wasn’t sure if busy had been a blessing or a curse. Work had become a distraction, a way to avoid dealing with everything he had pushed aside. But sitting here, in this chair, he realized how much he had missed these simple moments. How much he had missed feeling like himself.
As the cut continued, Marcus caught sight of himself in the mirror. The transformation was subtle but undeniable. His jawline became more defined as the excess beard was trimmed away. His features seemed lighter, no longer hidden beneath the weight of neglect. He almost looked like the person he used to be.
“I remember your pops used to sit right there,” DeAndre said after a moment, nodding toward the chair by the window.
Marcus followed his gaze and felt a lump rise in his throat. He could almost see his father sitting there, laughing at some joke, nodding along to the music playing in the background.
“Yeah,” Marcus said softly. “He loved this place.”
DeAndre paused for a beat before continuing. “You know, Mr. Rollins used to say a fresh cut wasn’t just about looking good—it was about feeling right. Said it was like shedding old skin, starting fresh.”
Marcus swallowed hard. He had heard those words before. His father used to say the same thing every time they left the shop, running a hand over his freshly cut hair and grinning like a man with no worries in the world.
When DeAndre finished, Marcus ran a hand over his head, feeling the crisp edges, the smooth fade. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw something he hadn’t in a long time—clarity.
“Feels good,” he admitted.
DeAndre grinned. “Yeah, man. Fresh cut. Fresh start.”
As Marcus stood to leave, he glanced once more at the chair by the window. Maybe he’d bring his mom here next time, just like his dad used to. Maybe he’d make this a habit again.
One step at a time.
He walked out feeling lighter, the weight of the past not entirely gone, but no longer holding him down.
