O4m | Barbershop Sc. 2

The lights rise on the same space. The barber chairs are now empty, save for a single folded apron on the armrest of the middle chair. The air smells of talc and antiseptic.

For that?

Open.

It’s not stupid. It’s grief. Grief is just stupidity with better lighting.

He makes the first cut. A small lock of hair falls onto the apron. Ezra flinches, but only slightly. o4m barbershop sc. 2

My father. Two months ago.

First time.

You can come in. The bell doesn’t lie.

He picks up the folded apron from the armrest. Shakes it out. Holds it for a moment—like a man remembering a handshake. The lights rise on the same space