However you care to do it, Tobias Green was definably average. Everything about him was quintessentially run of the mill. For instance, you could rely on the fact that Tobias had his hair cut on the first Saturday of every month. Nothing fancy Dan mind you: short back and sides, no more no less. For said coiffeury Tobias paid five English pounds, no more no less. He had paid the princely sum on each and every occasion of his adult life, which amounted to one hundred and forty-three haircuts. During that time he had saddled his bags to 14 different barbers but as a man of average intelligence, Tobias knew inflation and deflation were fair masters.
As the 12-squared cut would fall on the event of his 30th birthday, Tobias proposed to Saibot – his reliable reflection – they might break with tradition and do something a bit different. Little did Tobias front-and-back know but a break from the norm would squiggle his life up for keeps.
Haircut Saturday kicked off like any other. At 8.31am - one hour and 31 minutes beyond the weekdays - Tobias woke to the dependable sounds of Radio 4. He rubbed his left one once, his right twice, and then both a further four times. The seven rubs were for good luck, and the right always needed that extra tweak in the morning as it greedily slurped a 70/30 split of moisture during the darkness.
Tobias tucked his knees to his chest as the acclaimed gymnastic instructor Andre Blachix had taught him, raised his arms to the all powerful Judge, muttered a blessing and rolled forward on his firm mattress. Again, these were merely the actions of an average man who had been abandoned in a Romanian orphanage aged 6 and a bit, found saviour at the firm hand of an acrobatic legend with a soft heart, and had Olympic dreams cruelly shattered on the eve of competition by the midnight intrusion of a devilish Doberman with a foot fetish…
He was average.
He really was.
Tobias Green was definitely an average man.
He kept telling himself he was so it must be true.
With perfect 10 precision the roll ended with both gnarled feet planted firmly in Garfield slippers, thus enabling the upwardly mobile section of haircut Saturday to begin. Tobias knew that as it was now 8.32am, the reliable gas boiler had treated the hard water to 92 minutes of silent heating, giving him sufficient reason to generously lather his orifices.
Naked and erect, like any average 30-year-old man who existed in self-imposed solemnity would be on the occasion of his birthday, Tobias flung open the curtains. The day greeted him with the glares of watery sunshine and Mrs. Glark - old enough to be his dead father’s mother - who waved from behind the telescopic lens in her living room. As ever, Tobias mirrored the gesture, put hands on hips, and waited for the reliable liquid surge. Like any average man who had never experienced the inside or outside of a woman, Tobias woke stiff and sore and expelled thick translucent streams from his reproductive organ without any manual coaxing.
8.54am. Soaped-dried-dressed-fed-watered, Tobias made the short journey to Bob’s, the only barber in town who tendered service for the amiable amount.
The fact it was his birthday didn’t matter.
The fact he hadn’t received cards or gifts or calls didn’t matter.
The fact he hated every breath he ever ingested for his fecund lungs didn’t matter.
He was an average man and average men felt this way, although… he had never actually received clarity from anyone the dictionary might decry a friend:
1. A person whom you know well and whom you like a lot, but who is usually not a member of your family.
2. Someone who is not an enemy and whom you can trust.
3. Someone who gives money to a theatre, other arts organization or charity in order to support it.
9.07am. Bob was late. Bob was always on time. Bob was reliable. Bob smoked Marlboro Reds. Bob wore cowboy boots. Bob listened to country music. Bob liked to whistle. Bob never asked questions. Bob did his job.
“Bob’s dead.”
Tobias introduced his eyebrows to one another and followed the man – perhaps 30 years old and perhaps muscular and perhaps alluring to women – into the shop that sold haircuts.
“Bob was my Da. Bob always opened his shop. Bob is my name too. Bobs cut hair”.
Tobias was uncertain about the new Bob, a man who modelled a shirt so colourful it made his eyes feel certain they had vomited. This was to be a day of change for everyone at the barbershop however, so Tobias took his place in the black pleather chair, wrenched himself to the desired plateau without invitation, gave a cursory smile to Saibot and spoke loud and true.
“Shaved”.
Bob ceased all fingering of the shiny silver scissors and without word of warning buzzed a strip from Tobias’ head. Bob then proceeded to take one small step back and to the left before pursing the crux of his face.
“Swastika”.
Saibot took a long hard look at Bob. New Bob.
“Shaved”.
Bob shook his head and pointed.
“Swastika”.
Tobias shaped his mouth for an extolling of great erudition when Bob stopped him in his tracks with the twice-handled mirror. On the back of the head of this average man raged a purple birthmark that one could only describe as a swastika. Poor chance or not, with bent arms and right angles, it was what it was.
“Oh… What now?”
Bob cogitated before proposing with all digits.
“Hat?”
Tobias shook his head at Saibot who shook back at his backward brother, rose from his seat, crossed Bob’s palm with 10 fifty pence pieces and strode to the street. Being of average intelligence, Tobias knew that the word for the mark on his cranium could be directly translated from the Sanskrit word svasktika meaning a thing that is auspicious. It was time to be average no more. But where to start…
As the 12-squared cut would fall on the event of his 30th birthday, Tobias proposed to Saibot – his reliable reflection – they might break with tradition and do something a bit different. Little did Tobias front-and-back know but a break from the norm would squiggle his life up for keeps.
Haircut Saturday kicked off like any other. At 8.31am - one hour and 31 minutes beyond the weekdays - Tobias woke to the dependable sounds of Radio 4. He rubbed his left one once, his right twice, and then both a further four times. The seven rubs were for good luck, and the right always needed that extra tweak in the morning as it greedily slurped a 70/30 split of moisture during the darkness.
Tobias tucked his knees to his chest as the acclaimed gymnastic instructor Andre Blachix had taught him, raised his arms to the all powerful Judge, muttered a blessing and rolled forward on his firm mattress. Again, these were merely the actions of an average man who had been abandoned in a Romanian orphanage aged 6 and a bit, found saviour at the firm hand of an acrobatic legend with a soft heart, and had Olympic dreams cruelly shattered on the eve of competition by the midnight intrusion of a devilish Doberman with a foot fetish…
He was average.
He really was.
Tobias Green was definitely an average man.
He kept telling himself he was so it must be true.
With perfect 10 precision the roll ended with both gnarled feet planted firmly in Garfield slippers, thus enabling the upwardly mobile section of haircut Saturday to begin. Tobias knew that as it was now 8.32am, the reliable gas boiler had treated the hard water to 92 minutes of silent heating, giving him sufficient reason to generously lather his orifices.
Naked and erect, like any average 30-year-old man who existed in self-imposed solemnity would be on the occasion of his birthday, Tobias flung open the curtains. The day greeted him with the glares of watery sunshine and Mrs. Glark - old enough to be his dead father’s mother - who waved from behind the telescopic lens in her living room. As ever, Tobias mirrored the gesture, put hands on hips, and waited for the reliable liquid surge. Like any average man who had never experienced the inside or outside of a woman, Tobias woke stiff and sore and expelled thick translucent streams from his reproductive organ without any manual coaxing.
8.54am. Soaped-dried-dressed-fed-watered, Tobias made the short journey to Bob’s, the only barber in town who tendered service for the amiable amount.
The fact it was his birthday didn’t matter.
The fact he hadn’t received cards or gifts or calls didn’t matter.
The fact he hated every breath he ever ingested for his fecund lungs didn’t matter.
He was an average man and average men felt this way, although… he had never actually received clarity from anyone the dictionary might decry a friend:
1. A person whom you know well and whom you like a lot, but who is usually not a member of your family.
2. Someone who is not an enemy and whom you can trust.
3. Someone who gives money to a theatre, other arts organization or charity in order to support it.
9.07am. Bob was late. Bob was always on time. Bob was reliable. Bob smoked Marlboro Reds. Bob wore cowboy boots. Bob listened to country music. Bob liked to whistle. Bob never asked questions. Bob did his job.
“Bob’s dead.”
Tobias introduced his eyebrows to one another and followed the man – perhaps 30 years old and perhaps muscular and perhaps alluring to women – into the shop that sold haircuts.
“Bob was my Da. Bob always opened his shop. Bob is my name too. Bobs cut hair”.
Tobias was uncertain about the new Bob, a man who modelled a shirt so colourful it made his eyes feel certain they had vomited. This was to be a day of change for everyone at the barbershop however, so Tobias took his place in the black pleather chair, wrenched himself to the desired plateau without invitation, gave a cursory smile to Saibot and spoke loud and true.
“Shaved”.
Bob ceased all fingering of the shiny silver scissors and without word of warning buzzed a strip from Tobias’ head. Bob then proceeded to take one small step back and to the left before pursing the crux of his face.
“Swastika”.
Saibot took a long hard look at Bob. New Bob.
“Shaved”.
Bob shook his head and pointed.
“Swastika”.
Tobias shaped his mouth for an extolling of great erudition when Bob stopped him in his tracks with the twice-handled mirror. On the back of the head of this average man raged a purple birthmark that one could only describe as a swastika. Poor chance or not, with bent arms and right angles, it was what it was.
“Oh… What now?”
Bob cogitated before proposing with all digits.
“Hat?”
Tobias shook his head at Saibot who shook back at his backward brother, rose from his seat, crossed Bob’s palm with 10 fifty pence pieces and strode to the street. Being of average intelligence, Tobias knew that the word for the mark on his cranium could be directly translated from the Sanskrit word svasktika meaning a thing that is auspicious. It was time to be average no more. But where to start…
Ray Kane
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