This barber is not trying to cut my throat. He is not singing. He does not look crazy, and there is actually a smile on his face.
He runs the sharp, cold metal across my sandpaper cheek, and I wonder what would happen if he did cut me.
Would I feel it right away, like my wife describes cutting her ankle when shaving her legs? Would I feel nothing until he splashed hot water on my face and something to sting out the pain? Would there be a sizzle? Would there be a scar?
Something inside me hopes so. Maybe my wife would notice the scar on my face, think I’m hideous and leave. Maybe I’d stop finding shortened curly-cues on the shower wall, course and brown pasted against our fake porcelain tiles.
Maybe she’ll leave me.