The Cut

The barbershop glowed soft under a single bulb, clippers humming low against the Chicago dusk. Matt, 44, swept stray hairs off the worn floor, hands steady from years behind the chair. A fan ticked in the corner, stirring November air through streaked glass. The bell jingled—Dave, 42, stepped in, jacket slung over his shoulder, cap in hand, a desk job’s weight in his slouch.

“Trim?” Matt asked, voice warm, nodding at the leather seat. Dave eased in, mirror catching a face etched by quiet years—divorce at 38, nights chasing peace in old habits. Matt’s wasn’t much different—party days traded for faith three years back, steady now with shears.

Clippers buzzed, shearing Dave’s dark scrub. “Rough day?” Matt said, brushing a neck hair.

“Office grind,” Dave replied, eyes half-closed. “Back’s griping—too much chair.”

Matt chuckled, light. “Know it. Poured drinks ‘til 41—legs quit before the shots did.”

Dave’s mouth twitched—a half-grin. “Barber now? What flipped it?”

“Whiskey ran dry,” Matt said, easy. “Three years ago—church pal pulled me out. Clipping’s calmer—keeps me straight.”

Dave’s fingers tapped the armrest—Matt caught it. “Wife left me,” Dave said, low. “Four years—thought she’d settle what stirred off. Never did.”

Matt set the clippers down, grabbed a towel. “Yeah. Men got me—deep, not gals. Chased it in late bars—flicks, guys laughing, not loving. Hit harder’n anything.”

Dave’s eyes met Matt’s in the glass, steady over the hum. “Same reel. Shows—two fellas, tight, not queer. Never named it ‘til it stuck.”

The shop shrank—buzz, fan, street hum—just two voices weaving close. Matt knew that pull—loving men, not the world’s tune, soul not skin. Dave’s echo rang it softer—different ache, same thread.

“Faith found me,” Matt said, wiping Dave’s neck. “Three years—still feel that hum. Not chasing beds—just a guy getting me. Christ took it, made it His.”

Dave’s smile was faint. “Two years—prayer night, broke. Thought it’d damn me ‘til grace said no. Hums still—guy’s nod at work, old itch.”

They’d crossed that month—hair snipped, talk spilled slow. Matt saw Dave’s pause at a customer’s laugh; Dave caught Matt’s quiet when a voice hit the door. No rush—just truth, gentle as dusk. They’d nodded once, chair left open—two men, worn but breathing (John 15:15—friends, not just hired hands).

“Built for this,” Matt said, voice warm. “Men loving men, Christ’s way—not their line. Rare, but ours.”

Dave rubbed his chin, steady. “Thought I’d drift solo—shamed out. This—covenant? Feels true.”

The bulb flickered—shop dim, city soft beyond. Matt’s chest eased—Dave’s too. Not a spark of heat, not a blur—just alive, like shears cutting clean. Tomorrow waited—cuts for Matt, desks for Dave—but here, they sat, loving unique, God-lit.

“This is it,” Matt said, firm but soft. “Live it—show ‘em there’s more. Build it, brother—heart and hands.”

Dave tipped his head, meeting Matt’s eyes. “Yeah. Us—others too. No more lone.”

Night hugged the glass, a quiet vow. Two men, past the script, carving covenant in the chair—simple, real, His.