Wrapped in Rain(91)

The look on jase's face told me he was suffering from the same dilemma. He was bored. By 9:00 a.m., he had ridden two hundred loops around the driveway and even started setting his own baseballs on the tee. He needed an activity.

Mutt, on the other hand, needed a total hygiene overhaul, but I didn't know how to tell him. His beard was going on two weeks, but he shook so badly he couldn't draw a straight line, and I didn't want to suggest he do it himself for fear that he'd slit his own throat. Rather than risk insulting him, I tried the end-around approach. Mutt was just getting dressed when I popped my head atop the ladder. "I thought maybe I'd get a haircut today. You want to tag along?"

jase heard me from the foot of the ladder and said, "I do. I want to go!" Mutt looked at me with curiosity. "What time?"

I shook my head and said, "Anytime."

Mutt looked around the barn like he was checking his internal calendar, looked at his left wrist where he had never worn a watch, and nodded. "Five minutes?"

"I'll be in the truck."

I dangled my keys at Katie, who ran her fingers through her short hair and smiled, "No thanks, I don't think I need Clopton's finest stylist touching my head."

"You want me to bring you a bottle of color?"

She rolled her eyes.



There's an old adage that says never let a bald barber cut your hair, because jealousy may set in. Peppy Parker is bald as a cue ball and always has been, but all of Clopton has filtered through his chair. He's a Clopton establishment all to himself. Not to mention his barbershop. For as long as I can remember, Peppy has worn dentures that look two sizes too big and cause him to whistle through his teeth. He's never without a dip of snuff and ushers a brass spittoon on the floor beneath his chair like a soccer ball as he works a circle around you.

At seventy-five, his bear paw hands are still rock-steady with a straight razor, he's a gentleman's gentleman who calls everyone by name, and he's never been in a hurry. He's also never dallied. "Time is money," and when he says that, he's talking about yours, not his. For all his adult life, Peppy has worked fifty weeks a year, given forty haircuts a week, and concluded every single one with a firm handshake and a "Good to see you. Tell your family I sent my best, and come back and see me." More than one hundred thousand haircuts, handshakes, and blessings.

I met Peppy twenty-six years ago when Rex pointed his finger in Miss Ella's face and said, "Sit there and tell Peppy to cut it short, high, and tight!" He did too, which meant that my head stayed cold from that day until I left for Georgia Tech. Since then, it's been a bit warmer. Rex would call my longer hair a rebellion, but Miss Ella liked to run her fingers through it. I figure Peppy has cut my hair an average of eight times a year, and each time, I've looked more forward to the next than I did the previous.

In cutting most of Glopton's hair, he's learned a good bit about everything and everybody. If you want gossip, go to The Banquet Cafe, but if you want the truth, go see Peppy.



Mutt, Jase, and I walked into Parker's Barbershop shortly after he opened at nine.

"Morning, Peppy," I said.

"Good morning, Tucker. How's the world traveler?" Peppy placed the kid's seat atop the adult armrests of his chair and dusted it with his apron. "And who is this young man?"

"Peppy, this is Jase Withers. A good friend of mine."

"Well"-Peppy patted Jase on the knee and handed him a piece of Double Bubble chewing gum-"any friend of Tucker's is a friend of mine." Jase smiled and stuffed the gum in his mouth. Peppy looked at me. "How's he like it?"

Before I had a chance to answer, Jase said, "Unca Tuck, I want it cut like you."

"What do you mean?"

"Like in that picture above the fireplace."

"Ohhhh." I squinted at him and thought about the ramifications of such a decision. "Little buddy, I'm not too sure your mama's going to like that."

"But you will."

Peppy looked at me with raised eyebrows and smiled. "It'll grow back. Every boy needs to be a boy. It's part of living."

"Yes sir, they do. And it will." I looked up at Peppy. "That'd be a number one."

Peppy clipped a number one comb on an old polished chrome buzzer and flicked it on. The buzzer spat, hiccupped, coughed, and gave up the ghost. "Well, after fourteen years"-Peppy shrugged-"it's about time." He unplugged it, rolled the cord around the end, and pitched it in the can. Without a second's hesitation, he pulled his newer, seven-year-old buzzer off the wall and began systematically buzzing the hair off Jase's head.



Mutt tapped me on the shoulder with a rubber-gloved hand, pointed to my pocket, and held out his hand. I gave him my Swiss Army knife and he dug the buzzer out of the trash can. While Peppy buzzed, Mutt tinkered.

Four minutes later, not one single hair on Jase's head was longer than half an inch, and I could almost hear Katie screaming in horror at the sight of her son. It was a glorious picture. Peppy clicked off the buzzer, ran his fingers beneath the wall-mounted machine that warmed the shaving cream, and began dabbing it on Jase's neck.

`lase, sit real still," I said with my hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Peppy here is giving you the works." Peppy stropped his straight razor about three licks and gently shaved the fuzz off Jase's neck. Peppy pulled off the apron and held up the mirror for Jase. He smiled earlobe to earlobe, his ears appeared to stick out wider, and his chest grew six sizes.