The Turkish Barbers

Postcards from the darkside for Macabre Monday - a short story in 250 words

Photo by Redd Francisco on Unsplash

At the door, it's always the Bear with the coffee and pastries and the welcoming smile. Muscle.

Inside, it's not your trad. Brit. barbers. Oh no! Proper Turkish. The business!

The hook-nose keen eyed guy, perching on a hi stool at the till? The wet shave man with the razor and face towels? The Hawk.

The Wolf and the Fox? They're the guys with the quick snipping scissors, prowling fast around the chairs. Precision. Hunting down stray hairs; waxing noses, flaming ears. I swear I saw the Fox take a long snouting sniff as he leaned in to clipper-fade some guy’s neck. His teeth chattered like a cat saw a bird.

The place is all black wood, black lights and one hot spot beam on every chair. In silver mirrors I watch them at their business, seats pumping; never cooling.

“So you married sir? Got family? Live Local? Going away anywhere nice?”

Questions that tell a lot about a man. Fox and Wolf and Hawk quip and bark in Turkish, laugh; snap out ponchos; cologne bottle held up flamenco, misting clean cut heads.

“£8 pounds sir, Thank you so much sir. See you nextime.”

In the soft sofa queue I check my phone, recorder app sucking up the chatter.

What are they saying?

Translate: Turkish detected

Into: English

This one?

Smell goooood.

Sweet.

Lonely boy?

Yes. Hahahaaa. Smell virgin this one. Pure

Blood Magic Time.

Yes - been long.

Hungry

Ha ha! BLOOD. MAGIC.