cyle talley


What I remember most about Henry is that his pants were constantly covered in hair clippings. He may as well have not worn his barber’s smock at all. It certainly didn’t do him any good.

His barber shop used to be next door to my office on Lecrois & I’d wave to him through his window once or twice a day on my way to the courthouse three blocks down on Bannister. Really nice guy, no matter how many times I ribbed him for being covered in hair. He used to water the flowers in my window box, and about once a month or so, he’d call me over for a free shave. He called it “the neighborly deal”.

After the Conejo settlement, I could afford a nicer office near the heavy hitters on Doerr, & so I left the Lecrois office & Henry & walking to the courthouse.

Truth be told, I hadn’t thought about Henry for years until I ran into him last night at a gallery opening my wife & my investment guy drug me to. I said his name a little too loudly, I think, but the wine those places give away is great.

“Look at you!” I said, shaking his hand. “Not a hair clipping in sight! What’re you up to these days?”

He smiled.

“No, I haven’t cut anyone’s hair in seven years,” he said. “I paint now.” He swirled his pointer finger about the room.

“These are yours?” I don’t know much about art, but my wife & my investment guy do. They brought me here to buy whatever was available. Henry shoved his hands in his pockets & rocked back on his heels.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “It’s awfully nice not to be told how to make something look its best.”



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