The barber chair still turns toward the door

Dear Delyara, My father owned a barbershop with two cracked mirrors, one red chair, and a radio that only worked when the antenna rested against the window frame. He was deported six months ago after living here for twenty-two years. The shop is mine now, although I am nineteen and still cut the back of every customer’s hair too cautiously. This morning, an old client pushed open the door and called, “Yousef, make me handsome,” before remembering that my father was gone. We both pretended not to notice the silence that followed. He sat in the red chair and asked for the usual cut. I knew exactly what “usual” meant because I had watched my father do it every second Thursday since I was a child. When I finished, the man touched the back of his head, nodded, and placed twice the normal payment on the counter. I tried to return the extra money. He said, “Send your father a photograph of me. Tell him his hands are still working here.” After he left, I spun the chair toward the empty doorway the way my father always did while waiting for the next customer. It kept turning slowly after I removed my hand, as though the shop itself still expected him to walk in and complain that I had swept the hair into the wrong corner.