Saturday morning. The sun was already shouting at the earth.
Stan walked to "Supreme Cuts." This was not just a shop. This was the headquarters of male gossip and loud arguments.
Inside, the generator was making a kpa-kpa-kpa-kpa noise. The TV was showing a football match highlight. The air conditioner was trying its best, but it was losing the battle against the body heat of fifteen men.
The bench was full. Ten guys were waiting.
A normal person would ask, "Who is the last person?" and sit down to wait for two hours.
Stan is not a normal person. Stan does not wait.
He walked in. He was wearing his "casual inspector" outfit: slides, grey sweatpants, and a vintage shirt. He stood in the center of the room.
Two guys on the bench were arguing loudly.
"Ronaldo is the goat! He has the passion!" one guy shouted, spitting a little bit.
"Messi is a magician! Ronaldo is just a machine!" the other guy screamed back.
The room was hot with tension. The barber, Ugo, looked tired. He just wanted to cut hair, not referee a wrestling match.
Stan cleared his throat. He didn't shout. He just projected his voice like a subwoofer.
"Both of you are wrong," Stan said calmly.
The room went silent. Everyone looked at Stan.
"The real GOAT," Stan said, looking at the ceiling, "is the man who knows when to pass the ball, and when to keep it. You are arguing about millionaires who don't know your surname. Meanwhile, your hairlines are receding."
The room was quiet for two seconds. Then, everybody burst into laughter. The tension broke. The two angry guys laughed the hardest.
"This guy is funny o!" someone said.
Stan didn't smile. He nodded at Ugo the Barber.
"Ugo," Stan said. "The Throne is empty."
The barber chair was actually empty. The next guy on the bench was supposed to stand up, but he was too busy laughing at Stan's joke.
Stan took the opportunity. He slid into the chair. Smooth. Like water. He had just skipped a two-hour line using nothing but Psychology.
Ugo draped the cape around Stan. It smelled like talcum powder and old cologne.
"What are we doing today, Boss?" Ugo asked, turning on his clippers. Bzzzzzzz.
Stan looked at himself in the mirror. He inspected his face. Serious.
"Ugo," Stan said softly. "I don't want a haircut."
Ugo paused. "Sir?"
"I want a restoration," Stan explained. "You see this hairline? It is the equator of my face. It must be straight. If you make it crooked, my whole future will be crooked."
"I understand, boss," Ugo said, focusing hard.
"And the sides," Stan continued. "Fade it. But not too high. I want to look like I have money, but I am humble about it. You understand the 'Humble Billionaire' look?"
"I will try my best," Ugo said nervously.
For thirty minutes, Stan sat like a statue. He didn't move his head. He didn't check his phone. He closed his eyes and meditated.
Then came the final test. The scariest moment in a man's life.
The Spirit.
Ugo picked up the bottle of methylated spirit. This liquid burns like fire. It is designed to kill germs and make grown men cry.
Ugo sprayed it on the clipper brush. He moved toward Stan's fresh, sensitive hairline.
The whole shop watched. They knew the pain.
Ugo slapped the brush onto Stan's head. Pap! Pap! Pap!
The spirit hit the skin. The fire ignited.
Most men would wince. Some would hiss. Some would tap their feet to distract the brain from the pain.
Stan?
Stan didn't blink.
His face remained stone cold. Inside, his soul was screaming. Inside, he was crying for his mother. The pain was sharp, like a thousand needles.
But on the outside? Ice.
He slowly opened one eye and looked at Ugo in the mirror.
"Is that water?" Stan asked casually. "It feels refreshing."
The guys on the bench gasped.
"This guy is an iron man," one whispered.
Ugo finished. He removed the cape. He handed Stan the mirror to check the back.
Stan stood up. He looked sharp. The fade was blurry. The hairline was sharper than a geometry set.
He brought out his money. He paid Ugo.
"Keep the change," Stan said. (The change was 50 Naira, which can't even buy a sweet, but the gesture was what mattered).
Stan walked out of the shop. He paused at the door. He ran a hand over his fresh cut.
He felt aerodynamic. He felt dangerous.
A girl was walking past the shop. She looked at him. Stan didn't smile. He just gave her a small nod, acknowledging that she had eyes.
She looked back at him twice.
"It works," Stan whispered to himself.
Mission Status: Fresh.