The scissor blows rain down as fast as they were able, as delicately as they were able, and the silver tufts of Father’s hair collapse like ancient stones abandoning a mountain. The barber seems frightened; a submissive fear shows in his eyes. He rubs his nose and wipes his hands on his trousers, glancing here and there. The boy knows he is torn between a violent desire to finish his task as quickly as possible, and a steady, careful madness, calling him to perfect what he does. A sheep’s complacency is to be found between these poles. The old Sheikh closes his eyes, his back turned. His arms lie recumbent on the arms of the chair, solemn and immovable. His hands are flat, collapsed beside the arms of the chair. The sound of his quiet breathing mingles with the scissors’ squeak and the sound of the barber’s diffident footsteps. The hair forms a circle of snow around them; an uninterrupted circle, as if one of them had arranged it that way. There is a slight, hidden struggle between the sanctity of the circle and the footsteps of the barber. Austere light pours onto the Sheikh from the window, left open on shaving days like a holy tradition; the Sheikh is a well-crafted idol. The Sheikh raises his hand slowly. The barber understands the signal and finishes the meticulous combing needed to clip stray hairs on the sheikh’s chin. Another couple of minutes and the barber is sitting in a corner. The old man bends down, ripping the sanctity of the circle with greedy hands. He gathers the strands rapidly, and those that stray a little are throttled. The boy knows he is next. He waits until the circle is history, like usual, then calmly sits on the chair on which the barber has placed a wooden plank. The old man leaves without saying a word; the boy ascends the chair. The barber advances with his scissors, whose sequence of blows resumes. The warmth of fear creeps from the man’s hands into the boy’s skin; the boy’s fear was cold, drawing in the barber’s warmth. The scissor crunch echoes in the boy’s ear. He has a horrible misgiving that these scissors will clip his ear. The Sheikh’s chanting resounds from within, mixing with smoke that slinks into the room like a fox. Sweat pours down the barber’s face, and a drop hits the ground. The boy felt, for a moment, strange refreshment spreading slowly through his veins. Muhammad Aladdin- The Idol.
Posted on: Fri, 18 Oct 2013 14:46:47 +0000
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