This woman walks into my uncle's barbershop, everyday, around the same time: 4:15 p.m. For two weeks, this has been happening. And for two weeks, my disdain towards her has grown stronger. Everyday at 4:15 p.m, she strolls into the shop and asks for the same person. She almost never wears a jacket, even though we're in the middle of a skin-blistering winter.
"Hi, is Lance here?" she asks, routinely.
Mark, the receptionist, gives the woman the same pitiful look. He tells her Lance is not available, nor does he tell her when Lance is coming back. Before Mark can tell her why, the woman immediately leaves, telling Mark she will “just come back tomorrow."
It's extremely bizarre – and frustrating. Mark never bothers to stop her, because he thinks her brain is fried.
Normally, I wouldn't pay any attention to women like her. They walk into the shop all of the time, asking for various men. It's something that's bound to happen, as my uncle's shop is full of men who are involved with multiple women.
But this woman, I pay special attention to, because the man she asks for everyday is my father.
And my father has been dead for the last two years.
The first time she asked to see him, I thought she was insane. Everyone who knew my father, personally and formally, knew he was dead.
Today, I sit at the receptionist desk, patiently but very nervously. I wait for her, because I decide that I will be the one to tell her that my father is never coming back.
I'm fighting to maintain control of my emotions, as I fear that I may erupt into a fit of rage driven by grief, and the thought that this woman could be playing a cruel joke on me.
As she walks up to the desk, my expression quickly turns cold.
"Hi, I'm looking for Lance. Is he here today?" she asks. I stare at her intently, making direct eye-contact. I want the words that I tell her to register, so that I make sure to put an end to her cruel inquiries, which have turned into my daily torture.
"No," I say sharply. "Lance is not here. He's dead."
The woman's face drops and turns red. "Wh-what?" she sputters. Her expression is painted with disbelief and hurt. I would almost feel sympathy for this woman, if I didn't think she was playing a game.
"Yeah. My father has been dead for two years, lady. I honestly don't know how you wouldn't know that. Everyone who lives around here and knew my father knows that."
I'm merciless and impatient, as I cruelly break the news to her. I intentionally want to make her feel stupid and horrible for asking to see him, everyday for the past two weeks.
"So, tell me. What are you really coming here for, day in and day out? You can't be someone from the courts, dressed like –"
My onslaught of belittling and rude insults end abruptly, when the woman begins to loudly weep. Silence fills the barbershop, as everyone's attention is directed towards her.
As I watch her breakdown, I realize that this woman's intentions may not have been evil at all. And that she might have known my father very well.
