A Piedmont Porchlight Story

The Coffee Cup was still waking up.

Hattie had the coffee pot in one hand and her order pad in the other. The bacon was popping on the grill, somebody in the kitchen dropped a pan, and the smell of biscuits had already convinced half of Piedmont to stop by before work.

Curtis Pope was in our usual booth, reading yesterday’s newspaper like it was fresh off the press. Hattie topped off his coffee. “Mornin’, Curtis.”

“Mornin’.”

“How’s business?”

He folded the paper. “Well… I solved three marriages, one plumbing problem, and talked Earl Johnson out of buyin’ a bass boat.”

I looked over the top of my coffee cup. “Before nine o’clock?”

Curtis nodded. “Had one haircut left over.”

Hattie laughed so hard she had to steady the coffee pot. “You ought to charge extra.”

“I do.”

“You do?”

“No.”

“But I probably should.”

I stirred a little cream into my coffee. “You know…”

“What?” Curtis asked.

“I’ve often wondered why every barber thinks he’s qualified to solve everybody else’s problems.”

Curtis didn’t even blink. “‘Cause we’re cheaper than lawyers.” That got a laugh from three tables away. Curtis leaned back in the booth. “You’d be surprised what folks’ll tell a barber.”

“Like what?” Hattie asked.

“I’ve had men sit in my chair swearin’ they were quittin’ their jobs.”

“Did they?”

“Not after the haircut.”

“What changed?”

“They got it off their chest.”

“I’ve had young fellas ask how to propose.”

“I’ve had old fellas ask how to apologize.”

“I even had one man ask if he ought to buy a goat.”

I looked at him. “What’d you tell him?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“If he wanted milk… or entertainment.”

Hattie covered her mouth to keep from laughing. “My daddy always said men will tell a barber things they won’t tell their preacher.”

Curtis nodded. “That’s because they’re lookin’ at themselves in the mirror. They ain’t starin’ at you. They’re starin’ at their own face. And somehow… the truth comes easier.”

I thought about that for a minute. “You know what I always noticed?”

“What?”

“Nobody ever walked into Curtis Pope’s Barber Shop sayin’, ‘I need somebody to fix my life.'”

Curtis smiled. “They’d say… ‘Just take a little off the sides.'”

We all chuckled. After a moment, Curtis got quiet. You could always tell when one of his memories had walked in before the rest of him. “The hardest haircut I ever gave… was the mornin’ after Mr. Wilson buried his wife.”

Neither Hattie nor I said a word.

“He sat down. I put the cape around him. We hardly spoke.”

He looked into his coffee cup. “I don’t even remember what I cut. I just remember not lettin’ the silence feel lonely.”

For a little while, none of us said anything. Outside, somebody crossed Centre Avenue carrying a sack of feed over one shoulder. The screen door squeaked as another customer came in. Life kept right on moving.

Finally, I broke the silence. “I reckon every barber’s part therapist.”

Curtis shook his head. “No.”

“What then?”

“Janitor.”

I laughed. “For hair?”

“No.”

He smiled. “For people’s worries. They sweep a lot of ’em onto the floor before folks leave.”

That one settled over the booth like steam from a fresh cup of coffee. Hattie finally picked up the pot again.

“You know, Curtis…”

“What?”

“You’ve probably heard every secret in Calhoun County.”

He grinned. “I reckon I have.”

She poured coffee into his cup without ever looking up.

“No, Honey. You’ve heard every version.”

Curtis frowned. “What do you mean?”

She smiled that little smile that always meant somebody was about to get caught. “‘Cause by the time their wives come in here… I hear what really happened.”

Curtis stared at her for a second. Then he laughed. I laughed. Half the restaurant laughed, even though most of ’em hadn’t heard the whole conversation. Funny thing about little towns. A barber knows what happened. A waitress knows why.

And somewhere between the barber chair and the Coffee Cup… the truth usually manages to get itself trimmed up and served with breakfast.