Written By: Nate Hoil

Anyone other than Melbourne Ritz would’ve been suspicious about the dumpster behind the barber shop— the mountain of hair inside the unfamiliar business’s waste disposal unit was so overstuffed the lid would not close properly. Its plastic hung awkwardly bent like the brim of a baseball cap. Even the slightest gust of wind would send large balls of fuzz rolling across the parking lot like tumbleweed dancing across the desert. 

When Mel saw this, he did not think: Something’s not quite right about that… If those thoughts had crossed Mel’s mind, he’d probably still be alive today. Unfortunately, that fateful afternoon Mel was in the midst of a phase—a phase which involved him believing he was an expert in business. An entrepreneurial man, who was bound to get his big break once some perfect opportunity fell effortlessly into his lap. Therefore, his thoughts on the hairy dumpster were exactly the opposite.

“Wow… That place does great business,” Mel said, arms folded as he admired the hair pile’s dangerous weight. Mel would have said this to himself, even if there wasn’t a stranger walking past at the exact moment of his confident exclamation. Mel’s finger extended outward to the hair pile like a child toward an out of reach sippy cup. “See?” he added. “That must be the result of a thousand different haircuts!” The stranger didn’t answer, hardly slowing their stride. They glanced nervously at the dumpster, before disappearing around the corner of the sidewalk. 

Mel ran his fingers through his own hair. He pinched his fingers through his scalp’s thick tufts, determining their length. His hair was perfectly groomed. He’d just had an appointment two weeks ago, hardly spanning his usual six weeks between trips to his neighborhood salon. But the curiosity he felt toward the barber shop’s dim and mysterious windows made it impossible for him to change his mind. 

He was going in. 

People who knew Melbourne Ritz might have found this choice surprising. Mel had been going to the same local barber since he was fourteen years old— a family friend of Mel’s parents named Redford Gerard, whom had been cutting hair for over fifty years. And for the last decade, each haircut Redford Gerard had provided was slightly worse than the one before it… Every new appointment, Redford would toss the sheet over his customer, proceeding to give a buzz cut which missed two hairs more than the appointment before it. This cycle had repeated throughout the entirety of Redford’s career as a barber. If someone had taken a picture of the very first haircut Redford Gerard provided—an achievement of perfectly symmetrical stubble— then placed that first photo beside a picture taken during Redford’s most recent business day, the two images would be comparable to one brand-new tennis ball and another ball that had spent a weekend at a dog park. 

In the past, when Melbourne went to Redford’s for a trim, he never noticed this. Whenever his haircut was finished, Mel hardly even glanced at his reflection in Redford’s handheld mirror. There was no reason to rate or analyze Redford’s haircuts because there was never consideration that Mel would take his business anywhere else. 

Not until today. 

Mel hardly realized that he was able to get a haircut from anyone other than Redford. Not in several decades, since that first day his father led him by the hand, instructing Mel to bravely take a seat in Redford Gerard’s barber chair. Today though, after seeing the hair-filled dumpster, Melbourne felt a surge of enlightenment unlike anything he had felt in years. He could literally just throw up his hands and stroll right in there. Which he did… His hands shooting up unnecessarily high, while crying out, “Why not?!” to the now empty sidewalk. Yes indeed… He was going to ask this business for a haircut. But Mel was not prepared for the scene he would walk in on. After all, having only been to one barber shop in his entire life, why would Mel expect anything other than Redford’s vintage-looking shop. A shop which other customers might mistakenly believe to be a barbershop museum. A historical landmark, where everything from the chairs to the shaving utensils should have been retired several decades ago. 

In order to fully explain why Melbourne Ritz had suddenly become a wannabe business entrepreneur, it’s important to first explain his work history. Melbourne had worked at the same office, sitting in the exact same cubicle for more than fifteen years. Throughout that entire span of time, he never wore headphones. He never used the speakers on his desktop computer. He never made one single phone call. In other words: Mel’s ears were constantly listening to every passing sound of his surroundings. Over the years, his office became his main source of audible entertainment. This professional-eaves-dropping wasn’t always intentional. Mel’s first few years on the job were spent overwhelmed with anxiety toward his assigned tasks within the office, no matter how big or small that task might appear to those living outside Mel’s frightened mind. 

Whether he was sweating over a spread sheet or covering his eyes from his desktop’s blinding light… ever since day one of his employment, Melbourne Ritz was listening. He heard the salesmen and the hustlers rushing all around him. Making money in ways that Mel had never imagined. Days turned into years, and Mel’s mind began to change. It must have worked similarly to sleeping with a hypnotic language-learning audiobook plugged in one’s ears. Some of the things that Mel overheard began to stick with him subliminally. 

One night, Mel woke up from a nightmare. A terrible night-long vision, where he saw himself as an old man. White hair and deep wrinkles. Sitting on his deathbed. But it wasn’t death that bothered Mel, neither during his dream or upon waking. What bothered Mel was his dream’s final words: “I could have done great business,” his dream-self groaned, taking one last stretching reach of his arms, toward the sky before falling lifeless on the dream’s creaky mattress. 

So, it was decided. 

Inside this new barber shop, he would find out what this business owner was doing right. Not only that, but he would also ask to try something new, in regards to his hairdo. Something unexpectedly sexy... Something stylish, which would make people turn their heads—their boring looking heads, all covered by their underwhelming haircuts. The bell hanging over the barber shop’s front door jingled as Mel welcomed himself inside, pausing immediately. One polished loafer planted on the shop’s tile floor, while the other remained frightened and hesitant on the cement outside the doorframe. 

“Are you open?” Mel asked, feeling scared and foolish. Why would he ask this? Although there was no rectangle OPEN sign hanging on the entrance’s glass, there were two other customers sitting before the mirror in the barber chairs. One of them was in the midst of a haircut, which the customer clearly needed. The hair surrounding the base of the barber chair reminded Mel of an ant hill— mountainous and circular. The hair remaining on top of the customer’s head resembled an open umbrella. Perhaps this sight was what made Mel’s skin grow goosebumps... As well as the shadow of unwelcomeness, which caused his steps to freeze half in the doorway before fully committing to his entrance. This feeling was not unwarranted. Some might say that Mel should have turn around and ran as fast as he could, leaving this odd barber shop behind him forever. If Mel were smart, he would have determined the electric waves of danger he felt to be totally sensical. The barber shop was unfamiliar—the type of places he typically avoided at all costs. So why would he linger halfway inside the door, when it was his nature to flee speedily homeward at the slightest sensing of social discomfort? If Mel had lived long enough to reflect on this life event, he might have likened this scene to a traveling cowboy entering a bandit’s saloon. The spurs on this unknown rider—the rider being Mel— jingling rhythmically as every eye of the shadowy bar watch him with threatening attentiveness. 

“Come on in,” the barber grumbled, flipping his electric clippers on with an exhausted buzz. The clippers sounded so old and overworked, Mel wondered if the tiny machine might start smoking.

“Hell of a place you got here,” Mel smiled, taking a seat by the front window. “You must do great business.” 

“How do you mean?” the barber asked, not looking up from his work. His customer, on the other hand, glared through the mirror, his pupils appearing round and misty like a cat that crouched and stared through the dark. 

“The dumpster,” Mel said, gesturing vaguely toward the shop’s left wall, which separated him from the dumpster. “That sucker is full of hair.” 

The barber chair’s current customer began to tremble for unclear reasons— perhaps from anger… or perhaps he trembled because his severe loss of hair has made his body unusually chilly. As though the slightest draft of breeze might cause this man to catch pneumonia.

“Right,” the barber growled. “Full of hair… Right.” The barber turned his back to Mel and the buzzing sounds of a haircut resumed. Mel turned to the long row of plastic chairs, which lined the barbershop’s front wall. It was difficult to choose which chair to sit in. If he were getting a haircut at Redford’s like usual, he wouldn’t have been faced with such a dilemma. He would have trudged mindlessly to the second-to-last chair near the far window, where he might pick one of the old magazines that had been in Redford’s waiting area for as long as Mel could remember. Mel could feel his hands shake slightly as he skeptically took a seat somewhere in the middle of the row. His chosen chair bent awkwardly when he put his full wait upon it, as though all four plastic legs might snap at any moment. 

Cheap chairs… Mel thought to himself. Not something that’s usually found in a place that does good business. He chose to let this detail slide, keeping both feet steadily on the ground, prepared to rise to his feet if the chair gave the slightest hint that it might give way. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Mel heard a voice say, causing him to turn sharply. At the end of the row of plastic chairs, Mel realized that a man was leaning against the wall and staring at him. The shock of finding the man’s piercing stare was enough to make Mel’s heart jump. Mel’s body lifted from the plastic chair just slightly, before plopping back down with another scuffing bend of its plastic legs. If Mel had heard a wet splash of his heart dropping down into his stomach, the noise would only be slightly more surprising than this man’s hateful squint. As the seconds passed agonizingly, the stranger’s hateful eyes were only the beginning of Mel’s concern. Mel turned ahead quickly, too frightened to match the stranger’s gaze. The vision he saw of the stranger began to piece itself together slowly. 

“I don’t understand,” Mel could still feel this new stranger lingering. He knew there was something wrong, as though the stranger was standing in front of too bright of a light, causing Mel’s mind to stall. Unable to turn his fear-stiffened neck, Mel chose to shift his torso instead. He turned his shoulders slightly, letting his eyes creep to the corner of their sockets. The stranger hadn’t moved. Even in Mel’s limited and stretching glance, it was clear that this stranger had a layer of stubble over his face. 

Okay, so he has a large beard… Mel thought, trying his best to comfort himself. What’s so strange about that? Mel couldn’t manage to lie to himself. The problem was not that the stranger had a large beard. It was the WAY that the beard was large. The beard wasn’t big and bushy. It was groomed with care. This man’s facial hair didn’t end where the normal beard ended. It went all the way up. From the man’s chin to his forehead, parted around the stranger’s eyes. Mel’s own eyes continued to push toward the corners of their sockets, hoping to get another clear glance. The harsh feeling of the stranger’s glare continued to blister into Mel’s skin. A layer of fur covered the stranger’s face. He looked like a head-shaped welcome mat. “I don’t under—” Before he was able to repeat himself, he was interrupted by the angry grumbling of hair clippers, which were struggling to complete their final pass through the man on the barber chair’s hair. 

“You don’t belong here,” the hairy stranger continued to glare. “You don’t deserve to be here.”

“What the heck is this place?!” Mel whined nervously, reaching toward the top of his head. His own hair, recently groomed in the chair of Redford Gerard’s cozy and welcoming barbershop, didn’t feel too shaggy any more. In fact, it felt much too short to justify paying for a haircut today. Just as fast as his curiosity toward this shop began, Mel suddenly got the urge to walk out the door, never stepping foot in this place ever again. When the fourth and final barber shop tenant appeared on the other side of the business’s tile floor, Mel had to do everything in his power to keep his eyes from tearing up—the task was impossible. A flood began to pour down Mel’s face. The only upside to Mel’s eyes watering? He could only manage a moment or two to recognize this fourth stranger’s body… A body which, much like the stranger to the left of him, was covered in hair. Only this time, the hair was far from stubble. The hair was long and matted with dirt. The stranger wore clothes—a t-shirt and shorts. But every exposed limb… Every hand, every finger… Bore the same lengthy fur-like coating. Mel watched the hairy shape of the stranger disappear behind the glazed water of his tears. 

“Are you not human?” Mel stammered, unable to meet eyes with anyone. “Are you—” 

“Quiet,” the barber hissed. The sound of the clippers began again, this time even louder than before. The motor-like chugs growled and stalled, before screaming back to life again. A smell of burning hair reached Mel’s nostrils. He tried to think of any explanation. Some rare and unknown condition… Or perhaps a new trend in fashion, where people took special hair-growing supplements. But no matter how many thoughts raced through his head, there was only one answer that seemed the most logical: This business is for monsters. 

Werewolves. Beasts. Yeti-like creatures. 

“I just realized I need to be going,” Mel trembled, sounding like he was asking permission. None of the four strangers in the barber shop seemed to hear him. 

“Alright, guy. You’re up,” The barber said, turning the empty chair around. Mel didn’t move. He began to hope that the plastic chair beneath him might collapse like he once feared, sending him falling. The disruption might allow him to roll across the floor, escaping out the shop’s entrance. It was funny to think that his flimsy chair used to be the greatest anxiety of his afternoon. “I said YOU’RE UP!” the barber grimaced, allowing Mel to get his first clear look at the barber’s teeth— they were thin and long. Their grey color made the teeth vaguely familiar. Mel looked to the clippers in the barber’s hand, then back to the teeth in his mouth. The two were identical. Somehow, the barber had become a man-like version of his own signature utensil. 

“Oh my—” Mel’s eyes widened in horror as the barber’s teeth buzzed behind his grin. The barber’s smile widened around its needle-like metal teeth. A bubble of blood grew in the corner of the barber’s mouth, popping and spattering. Mel might’ve worried that the barber would faint from blood loss if he weren’t certain that he was looking at the living dead. “What are you? What ARE YOU?!?” Mel sobbed. “Are you robots?!” 

“Get in the chair,” a voice growled beside Mel, as two firm hands yanked him up by his forearm. The hands were hairy and cold, and they push into Mel’s shoulder blades, forcing him to complete his journey into the chair. 

“What can I do for you today?” the barber hissed humorously. Mel locked eyes with him in the mirror. “Don’t worry about this little mishap,” the barber cackled, pointing to his own bloodied mouth. “I just cut myself shaving!” He cackled maniacally. “Now what will it be, guy? A little off the TOP?!” 

If Mel had more time to think about his situation, who knows what sorts of questions would be racing through his mind. He might ask if the barber’s teeth were permanently installed. Maybe he’d been like that since birth… Or perhaps they were only a device that the barber could remove at the end of the work day. Perhaps they were only a prototype. An experiment created in the entrepreneurial spirit… 

Of great business. 

In reality, Mel was not thinking any of these things. He was closing his eyes as tight as he could possibly manage. The hot and smokey breath of the barber grew closer and a rumbling sensation rattled Mel’s skull. A sharp pain drove into the side of his forehead. His attempt to scream was cut off by a deafening: CRUNCH. A sound like a plastic water bottle being squeezed in someone’s fist. It was so unexpected, Mel forgot where he was. He opened his eyes. He could still see the barber in the mirror. The barber’s eyes were wide and dilated. His metal teeth burrowed deep into the top of Mel’s scalp, lodged deep in Mel’s skull. The feeling that came next was startling. All at once, Mel began to feel safe. He no longer needed to fight things. It was as though what was happening to him had already taken place long ago. He was meant to be here. He would never be able to leave. There was nothing Mel could do about any of it. There was nothing he could have done to begin with. 


Nate Hoil is a freelance writer and editor currently squished between the states of Iowa and Illinois. He also runs Secret Restaurant Press, which he founded in 2022. You can find more at natehoil.com

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