Ezra pulls out a twenty. Lays it on the counter. Then, without asking, he picks up the small hand mirror from the hook and looks at the back of his head—something most men never do.
A beat. EZRA, mid-twenties, steps just inside the doorway. He wears a wrinkled button-down and carries a helmet under one arm. His hair is long, unkempt, but not fashionably so—more like it has been forgotten.
It is not a question. Ezra’s jaw tightens. o4m barbershop sc. 2
Someone died.
It’s not stupid. It’s grief. Grief is just stupidity with better lighting. Ezra pulls out a twenty
He makes the first cut. A small lock of hair falls onto the apron. Ezra flinches, but only slightly.
I don’t know what I want.
The clippers move in steady, careful strokes. The sound is rhythmic—almost musical. The light through the dusty window shifts.