Mirko brought the clippers into the kitchen like a man handing something over for repair. His barber had retired, the other one was too expensive, and his hair was already touching his ears. Vera said she had only ever cut their children's hair, long ago and badly. He pulled out a chair. They had been married for thirty years, and she knew that movement, the way it turned his request into her agreement.
She agreed anyway. She draped an old sheet over his shoulders and secured it with a clothespin. Mirko immediately began explaining how the barber used to do it. Vera switched off the clippers. She said he could have her hands or continue talking to the man who had just retired from the business. After a brief silence he lowered his chin. It felt strange to see him obedient, his large hands resting quietly on his knees.
Beneath the hair she found a small pale scar. She asked where it came from. He said he had fallen as a boy while trying to climb through a window after coming home too late. His mother let him believe until morning that he had fooled the entire household. Vera knew the story of the fall, but she had always imagined a knee. She traced a finger above the scar, carefully, so the plastic attachment would not scratch him.
Mirko laughed and then went quiet. In the little cabinet mirror she saw him looking at the gray hairs on the sheet. He said the back of his head would look old now. Vera almost told him he was being silly. Instead she said her own neck had frightened her in a photograph the previous week. They never discussed this. For years they had mentioned aging through bills, medical results, and jokes, never like this, with one sitting while the other held his head.
Behind his left ear she cut one patch too short. Mirko felt it and offered no instructions. She finished as best she could, shook out the sheet, and gave him a handheld mirror. He inspected himself for a long time, then said he looked like a director who had cut his own expenses. Vera laughed so hard she had to sit down. For the first time that morning she was not busy doing something for him.
After lunch he suggested a walk. At the door he reached for his cap, hesitated, and left it on the shelf. Vera noticed the bare patch, but it no longer looked like a mistake. While they waited for the light to change, she touched the back of his head. He turned, surprised by that public tenderness. She did not ask whether he would find another barber next time. She kissed him where she could reach.