After the sun goes down, the scene inside Issac’s Barber Shop beams out to the street like a film on a screen. My bus is always moving slowly along that block, and each night I am treated to a perfect still frame of the barber, always standing at the far chair on the right, his own perfect short ‘fro a kind of reassuring icon.
In the morning, I walk by, and the men inside are different; a different shift of stylists, perhaps. I’m not even sure which is Issac, but there is now a sign in the window, which is cracked slightly: “DO NOT LAY ON GLASS” Then, in smaller letters, with an arrow pointing to the crack: “It is about to brake.”

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