Page 44 of Chains and Vows

"You can't walk into the good ol’ boys club looking like a damn criminal," Cash told me yesterday. "We gotta make you respectable."

He parks his truck on the street in a long, empty stretch of curb that runs the whole length of the building and has city signs every eight feet declaring it 'Reserved for Harmon & Sons'.

We get out and go in. A tiny bell jingles our arrival and the first thing I notice is the strong scent of leather and everything that goes with it.

Saddles, guns, black and white photos on the walls—undoubtedly, some of them are Eleanor's.

The floor is wooden and worn pale and smooth from thousands of boots walkin' across a hundred years.

The ceiling is made of pressed tin and it's high. Ceiling fans turn slow up there and the light comin' in through the big front glass dies about halfway back.

There are saddles in wooden stands everywhere. Some of them for sale, some of them are roped off and come with hand-lettered cards tellin' who they were made for.

In the back there's a young blond girl standin' behind a glass counter filled with small money items. Silver bits and spurs, folding knives, belt buckles, and leather care.

One wall has boots. Not racks of them like you might see in the footwear section of Runnings, just single-display pairs on wooden shelves with no prices anywhere.

I guess, if you have to ask the price, these boots are not for you.

Another wall has cloth by the yard, wool shirts, and hats on pegs.

Cash leads me past all this toward the back. The girl at the antique cash register is talkin’ to an old man about hay prices. She doesn't say anything to us, just nods her head and smiles as we make our way past toward an elevator that looks like it stepped right out of the Roarin' Twenties.

We step inside a metal box the size of a confessional and Cash pulls the brass accordion gate closed by hand. There are only three choices here. One, two, and three.

Cash yanks a brass lever up to the number two printed on a metal panel and we rise. A brick wall crawls past as we stand, crammed shoulder to shoulder. We stop on the second floor and I catch the scent of shaving cream.

Automatically, my hand goes to my beard. It's not an identity, but I'd be lyin' if I said this whole thing wasn't worryin' me some.

Cash opens the gate and we step out.

The second floor is a barber's room that looks like it got lost in time. There's a single porcelain-and-chrome chair sittin’ at the far end of the brick-walled room and two tall arched windows on the near side that pour cold Montana light across everything.

Facing the chair is a marble counter with an aged mirror above it. On the counter sit the tools of the trade—a shaving mug, a badger-hair brush, combs and clippers, scissors, and a stack of neatly folded towels.

The barber—a short, old, bald man with an apron and a towel over his shoulder—stands off to the side of the chair and greets Cash by name in a soft voice.

He doesn't acknowledge me at all, which tells me everything about what I am in this room.

Cash sits in a chair by the window and says, "Make him look respectable, but keep him lookin' dangerous."

I'm not sure what that means. I just take my seat in the chair and decide to trust the process.

The chair rises under me as a cape is cracked open and settled across my chest. He snaps it right around my throat like he means business.

In the mirror, I'm nothing but a head of blond hair that looks like it's been whipped by an ancient wind with a beard that says it's never seen oil.

I meet the barber's eyes in the mirror as his mouth turns into a disapproving frown. I'm about to give him my opinion when he nods and mutters, "OK."

And that's it. That's all he says. A moment later, he's gathered my hair in a fist and years of growth come off in quick snips.

I can't even blink, that's how wrong I look in the mirror and he just barely got started. The clippers come to life next, buzzin' against my ear as he runs them up my temple. Golden blond hair falls off and slides down the cape to the floor.

He works up the sides through guard after guard, then blends it all by eye with clippers and comb.

The fade is nice and I can't say I hate it.

He does the top with scissors and leaves it kinda long. And by long, I mean like three inches.