GRANT THE BARBER

Grant puts the ‘Closed’ sign in the front window just before 3. Stan in the chair, only me waiting. He usually closes at 4, so he obviously doesn’t want anyone new to walk in.

Perhaps he has an early dinner date with Alice, his current girlfriend. Her framed photo sits on the low white porcelain sink table beneath the mirror. In my experience, nothing ever makes it onto Grant’s white table unless it’s special. Alice’s a ten out of ten, for sure.

Grant and Stan are discussing the upcoming Alaskan cruise that Stan and his wife are about to take. Tomorrow, they fly to Vancouver and then join the ship.

Grant is a practiced listener. Asks lots of questions. Always encourages lengthy, detailed answers. Grant often shares interesting personal anecdotes in the conversation.

Over the years, I’ve noticed that most of his stories are about the mysterious potions, scented waters, and barbering antiquities that fill the shelves and walls in his shop. Depending on the customer’s interests, Grant may share a juicy tidbit about his gorgeous girlfriend. It’s hard to ignore her photo on the shelf at eye level.

I sometimes think that a lot of men come to Grant’s chair, not so much for his barbering, but for the chance to be an invisible voyeur into Grant’s love life.

And let me tell you, his girlfriend's stories never disappoint.

Of course, if there are kids in the shop or a wife waiting uncomfortably for her husband, Grant’s spicy anecdotes never make it into the conversation.

Stan finishes, pays and leaves. I slide into the still-warm chair.

“What’ll it be, old man?”

I’ve been coming here for at least fifteen years. So, Grant knows. But he always asks.

“The usual. Buzz all round, beard short, brows clipped.”

Grant makes a show of examining my head and facial hair from several angles. He clucks softly to himself.

“OK, old man, let’s do it.”

He always starts with scissors, then after a couple of minutes, he’ll switch to the clippers.

Every time. It’s just his routine.

I decide to start today’s discussion before he has a chance.

“So, ever been on a cruise?”

Grant hesitates, then, “Nope. Not interested. Give me a boat on Sturgeon Lake and good fishing. Anytime. Walleyes, northerns, sometimes a muskie. I’m not fussy. I’m in it for the fun, man. But always catch and release. I never keep them.”

Then a sudden, unexpected right turn.

“You’re a writer, right? Short stories, if memory serves. About the human condition, you once told me.”

“Hmm,” I mumble, trying not to move because Grant’s still vigorously working the scissors on the back of my head.

“I’ve got a personal story you might be interested in. A confession of sorts. You've got to promise you’ll never repeat it. Never make it one of your stories. Ever. So, we good?”

This is so unlike Grant. I’m intrigued.

“Yep,” I say. ‘We’re good.”

“You see Alice there?” He pauses, scissors quiet. “She doesn’t exist. Made up. All of it. Even the spicy stuff.”

I’m shocked.

“Those pictures there.” He points. “The triplets? My brother’s kids?”

“That collection of barber tools on the wall there? Gifted to me by local legend Henry D himself upon his retirement? Never happened, my friend. Got them at a yard sale just before I started this place. But my older customers fondly remember Henry and his shop on Hunter West. They want to believe that stuff is the real deal.”

Grant waves the scissors toward the long wall of barbering tools and nostalgia stuff.

“All of it.”

 “It’s all for show, my friend. Makes everyone comfortable. They relax in the chair. Tell me stuff. Important stuff about their lives. About relationships. Sometimes very private things.”

Grant smiles.

“In return, I tell them made-up shit about my life, my imaginary girlfriends. My family life growing up on Vancouver Island. As a kid, sailing in the Queen Charlotte's.”

“But, why, Grant? I don’t get it.”

‘Ah, my friend, now we’re getting to the real story.”

I watch him in the mirror. Standing behind me, hands at his side.

He’s smiling. Like the cat who ate the canary.

I’m confused. It’s feeling like an out-of-body experience.

“This barbering gig? It don’t pay shit. Hard on the body, standing all the ‘effing time. Spinning bullshit all day long.”

“You heard Stan, going on and on about their damn cruise. But I know where he lives. I now know when he’ll be away. The house will be vacant. So, I go online, check out the place and neighbourhood on my Street View app.”

“Couple nights later, I pay a visit. Put on gloves, jimmy the patio door, turn off the security system, and voila, the entire place is mine. I’ll clean them out over a couple of hours. Will likely be an easy ten grand. Maybe more. One never knows.”

“I cut the hair of a lot of Stan’s. Over many months, I tell my bullshit stories, share naughty tales about a made-up sex life with that amazing woman in the photo.”

Grant points with the scissors.

“I ask innocent questions about their lifestyle, their address and security system. Shit like that. Patience, man. It takes patience. I go home and make notes on what I heard at work.”

“How long you been doing this…?” I pause because I have no words. “This secret gig of yours?”

“Two, maybe three years. No one suspects anything. The cops haven’t figured it out. They never will. I’m too good at it.”

Grant starts the trimmer, humming silently to himself.

A faint smile on his lips.

“Tell me, my friend,” he says.

“Who’d ever suspect the barber?”

I’m left wondering.

Do I write his incredible story? Maybe get it published?

Do I call the cops?

If I blow the whistle on Grant, I’ll have to find a good barber.

So, I ask you this.

You have any idea how nearly impossible that would be these days?

First Published. The Canadian magazine and digital version of Blank Spaces.

The Backstory. The story was written as an entry into the publication's March 2026 Prompt Story Competition. The visual prompt was the barber chair scene at the head of this post. The word limit was 1,000 words. My story placed third.

Legal Rights. I own the rights to 'Grant The Barber.' Please don't 'borrow' from this blog and publish it somewhere without my permission. Ask me. Tell me what you want to do with it. We will probably be able to work something out.