The man in my chair is Mr. Earl. He lives in the assisted living home right next to my little barbershop. He’s the kind of customer you notice right away—not because he talks much, but because he carries a quiet, gentle presence that fills the room.
Mr. Earl has a memory problem. If you tell him something today, by tomorrow it’s gone. When he hears it again, it’s as if he’s hearing it for the first time. And in some ways, that makes every conversation with him feel brand new—like meeting an old friend for the first time, over and over again.
Years ago, his brother was the one who made sure Mr. Earl never missed a haircut. Every week, like clockwork, his brother would stop by the shop. He’d slip me the money for the week’s trim, sometimes chatting a bit about the weather or the ball game, sometimes just giving me a nod and a smile.
Later, Mr. Earl would wander in, cane in hand, his slow, careful steps bringing him to the same chair he always sat in. He’d ask, “Did my brother pay you so I can get my haircut?”
And I’d always answer, “Yes, sir, your debt is already paid.”
The brother passed away five years ago. The first time Mr. Earl asked about him after that, I paused for a moment, my heart heavy. But I realized—what good would it do to tell him the truth, only to have him feel that loss again and again? So I said what I always said:
“Yes, sir, your debt is already paid.”
Every week since, he still comes in. Every week, he asks the same question. And every week, I give the same answer. We talk about small things—how the flowers are blooming outside the shop, how the coffee from the corner store is stronger than usual, how the weather feels like rain.
When I finish, I hold the mirror up, and he smiles like it’s the first time he’s seen a fresh cut in months. Then he thanks me, shuffles toward the door, and waves on his way out.
I’ve come to believe that Mr. Earl’s brother is still paying for those haircuts—just not with money anymore. He’s paying in love, in the kind of bond that doesn’t fade, even when memories do.
Some things are worth more than money. And for me, the sight of Mr. Earl walking through that door, the smile on his face when I tell him his debt is paid—that’s payment enough.
Some weeks are harder than others in this business, but every time I see him, I’m reminded why I do what I do. Sometimes, it’s not about the haircut at all. It’s about making someone feel cared for, seen, and remembered—even when they can’t remember themselves.
Amen.
