The keys jingled in Pat's shaking hands as he unlocked the door. Detecting his presence, the barbershop's lights activated. Pat took in the room: the chairs, mirrors, and combs. For all its scientific prowess, humanity had yet to replace the barber. Vacuum-bots scurried into position, waiting to suck up chopped hair. But there wouldn't be any. Nobody wanted to visit a barber whose hands shook.
Even in old age Pat's hands were strong, beautiful, and slender. But the Ciboscis virus had robbed him of that. Most days he wished the damned virus had been allowed to run its course. He was a Barber. Couldn't be anything else. That's why he had made the choice and agreed with his son. He would have customers again.
A bell jingled as Pat's son entered. “Jesus, Dad, what are you doing here? We're due at the clinic in an hour.”
Pat didn't respond. His son grew silent, realizing: his father wanted to open up his shop one last time as a whole man.
The boy put an arm around his father. “Come on, pop. Let's get you some new hands.”
The surgery went flawlessly. The rehabilitation therapy was faster than most. And before he knew it, Pat was back in his barbershop. Once word circulated that a barber with bionic arms was in the city he couldn't get through his customers fast enough. Many asked him to remove the synth-skin, marveling at the insides. Pat told stories, comforted wives, and gave children sweets. He even regained his sense of humour.
At the head of his desk he kept a jar of blue barbicide. Mothers cringed, men stroked their chins, and children stared wide-eyed. Floating in the jar were Pat's old hands, finally still. Taped to the jar was a note: “Retired”.
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