Zerschnittene loneliness

Seidig shiny struppen whiskers under his crooked nose. One of them has been resolved, and has reeled down on the brittle lips on his tongue tip lost. He spits out moist air to get rid of it. He is the hairdresser. Not Crane, no movie character. He is the hairdresser. The men's hairdresser, to be exact, but since he is rather long only the seat. If you have a hairdresser, when we no longer upgraded? If you still can dress the hair, but no one hereinschneit, airs on the hat and greeting to the rotating Knautschlackleder-Drehschemel front of the mirror settled? Only the neck ausrasieren. Please not with the scissors. If the beard perhaps even a bit. Nothing. The whole day is the Barber on the middle of his three waiting chairs. The seater. His hands, a number of small scissors cut scars on his left hand, folded into one another. The eyes a little sad, her shoulders drooping. The hope in his view is old and tired. My shine is peeled off.

He sighs, lighting a cigarette. Almost slow the thick smoke hovers at his crooked nose gone to the room ceiling. In addition to the roaring of the trucks in front of his small shop is the quiet crackling embers of tobacco, each of his lung accompanied trains, the only noise around him. He feels alien in today. Everything is so different. The barber there is only on the opera stage, and the hairdresser can no longer call his shop if he does not want customers einbrocken wastage. And not only that, now you need fesche Barber with breathtaking zerzaustem hair Schopf, abgedrehte accessories, the latest products, art designer furnishings, hot music and a silvery Klotz, in the twinkling of milchschäumenden latte macchiato or feinherben aufbrüht cappuccino. With such tricks buzzing the business. Here only the drone trucks.

The hairdresser has something for no money. A glass of tap water, it could offer its customers. That would them from the next room pick. Even Gern. With a dunkelgelben smile. And the presence of women makes him ever so nervous. Almost helpless. His spit dries out, the neck is brittle, the hands are wet, the schlingern thoughts, and he does not know what he will say. That is his whole life. And so, no one likes fesche young hairdresser. He would also not even money to the employee. And so nobody comes. And because nobody comes, nobody dares to even look. Because an empty Barber Shop may not be the best. As can be thought of the hair cut elsewhere. Not for this Ewiggestrigen. For others get a coffee. With milk foam.

But long he can barely pay the rent Laden. Two reminders, the landlord already sent to him, because he was delinquent. And, although he received the landlord the rent for forty years, not increased, and recently even lowered. But it is not a customer. Maybe one day. The old customers are nearly all dead or moved away. So the hairdresser often sits alone for hours on the middle chair. About him the old cutting crouch on the wall. All still work. Everything collected themselves. With love and devotion draped on the wooden board that he screwed into the wall and gedübelt. So is its plant in the corner is often the only one who he is a glass of tap water can offer. Sensually he called it "Lulu." They listen to him, if no one else comes, and that is often. You know his concerns and desires. Especially when it gets dark in winter, and nothing is heard except the Verkehrsgebrüll outside and the crackle of his fervor.

Previously, it was different here. Since waberte heavy cigar smoke through the tiny shop. Men from all age groups jostling on the chairs, refused to narrow stone pillar next to the door. Since rang his old fund. His heißgeliebte fund. Meanwhile valuable. Even with real crank. If today is no longer something built. True solid, holds several lives.

His shop was the message Shift situation all over the place in the quarter. They scuffled herein felt in heavy coat, and since they were already all. Mr. Johannpötter, Mr Paschulke, Mr. Rottenberg, Mr Mark Stein, Mr. Tollkötter or Mr. Jelinek. That was a mess. This policy was made. Someone brought a beer with, and remained even after the haircut hours, because it was such fun, in the busy bustle, the heated discussions about politics, football, or lawn mowing finger in the pie. Because life took place here.
The Barber Shop was the small, close and cozy afternoon master table. There was one at home. But those who were here at home, are no longer at home. Tot or fort. And the connection of the time missed.

The Barber never had a feel for trends, almost a little afraid of them. A timid faith in the bright, hectic modernity. He is the only hairdresser. He cuts hair. And plauscht likes a little. With his voice, always rough, tobacco and deep as too long sleep. Gimmicks for Others, like he says. White today because no more manual work to appreciate? Even today, no. Nobody. From morning until 9:00 at night to 6:30. And that, even though he himself a new Easter decoration created. Dyed eggs, a little green gift from the gardener, a few light yellow ribbons to grinding curved. Everything flows over. Now he closes the door again at the heart of all the whole day as well. Perhaps yes tomorrow again a customer. What a joy for the hairdresser. He would even him spend two glasses of water. And even a free shave on top. Just because he is so happy. But still, it is not tomorrow. Tomorrow maybe.