Shoes, Paper, Scissors

By SHWE YOE

The barber stood at his door reading the newspaper, waiting for customers. He liked December. It was cool and the skies were a clear blue. It was the only month he enjoyed standing in the sunlight. He closed his eyes and imagined he was on a tropical beach.

He was suddenly shaken from his reverie by a heavy cough close by. He opened his eyes to find a very dashing gentleman of about 50 in front of him.

“Excuse me,” the man enounced. “Do you perchance have a moment to give a good man a haircut?”

The barber stared at the man for a moment. He was dressed in a smart grey Western business suit with a tight waistcoat around his prominent belly and a white handkerchief popping out from his jacket pocket.

“Perchance I do,” the barber replied theatrically, opening the door for the gentleman.

The gentleman sat down and the barber fussed around him, tying a bib around his neck and adjusting the seat.

"My word!” exclaimed the barber. “What beautiful shoes those are.”

"Thank you,’ replied the gentleman, obviously pleased. “I bought them in Italy while I was attending a seminar.”

“Indeed?” said the barber, snipping away at the man’s balding crown. “And might I ask what kind of seminar you were attending in Europe?”

"Of course," the man replied with a big grin. "I am an official with a government think tank. I was in Rome representing Myanmar, meeting with potential investors and foreign donors who want to help Nargis survivors.”

The barber stopped cutting and stepped back, examining the gentleman in the mirror. “Well, I never!” he exclaimed.

“Oh yes,” the gentleman whispered in mock modesty. “My reports go straight to the top brass in Naypyidaw.”

The barber stood back and sharpened his scissors against the sandpaper belt hanging from the wall. For a moment there was silence in the shop.

“A think tank?” the barber said, scratching his head as if totally perplexed. “My word, what on earth is a think tank? Is it like a fish tank? Do the generals actually put all you guys in a giant goldfish bowl and tell you to think about things?”

“No, of course not,” the gentleman scoffed, his face turning serious.

The barber continued cutting the gentleman’s hair and said nothing.

“Yes, that’s right!” exclaimed the gentleman, sensing he had put the barber firmly in his place. “I was instrumental in drafting the constitution and I also advised the government on the recent Asean charter. What do you think of that?”

The barber remained silent.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue, old man?” laughed the gentleman. “Or did you not expect to be serving one of the country’s most powerful men today? With my signature, deals are made on aid, democracy and human rights!”

“Sounds like you are a great believer in pieces of paper,” muttered the barber quietly.

“Excuse me?” the gentleman shouted, leaning closer to the barber. “Did you say something?”

“I just asked if you would like me to polish your shoes now,” replied the barber meekly, his eyes downcast.

The gentleman sat back with a satisfied grin. “Indeed I do,” he said.

“”Please just hand your shoes to me, so I can clean them under the sink.”

The gentleman untied his laces and removed his fine leather shoes. He handed them to the barber. “Let’s have them nice and shiny, old boy,” he stated.

“Might I say, sir,” the barber said timidly. “You are so dignified. You look just like a president or a world leader.”

“Really?” the gentleman said, puffing his chest.

“Yes, sir. Yes,” said the barber. “If you could just stand there beside the door for a second …”

The gentleman moved alongside the door as if posing for a photo.

Suddenly, one of his shoes flew across the room and slapped him squarely on the chest. He gasped and looked up in disbelief at the barber who was now standing in front of him holding the other shoe above his head, ready to throw it too.

“Perchance I do not, old boy!” shouted the barber. “But I do know a pretentious hypocrite when I see one! And you know what we do with pretentious hypocrites these days? We ‘shoe’ them, just like your good friend, President Bush!”

And with that, he threw the other shoe, striking the bewildered gentleman on the side of his head.

“Get out!” shouted the barber. “Get out of my shop, you parasite!”

Holding his eye with one hand, the gentleman quickly gathered his shoes from the floor. He fumbled with them and stumbled as he scurried out the door.

The barber followed him out with a large frown on his face.

“Who was that?” asked Ko Paing, who was just passing when he saw the gentleman stumbling out the barber’s shop and running away.

“Just another greedy bureaucrat,” replied the barber.

“Look!” said Ko Paing bending down. “He ran off without one of his shoes!”

The barber smirked. “Just like Cinderella.”

“I heard that some Saudi man offered to pay $10 million for the shoes that the Iraqi journalist threw at Bush,” said Ko Paing.

“Really?” said the barber, taking the shoe in his hand with a smile.

“Yes,” continued young Ko Paing. “He told the press he considered the shoes to be ‘Medals of Freedom.’”

“Really?” beamed the barber. “Well, in that case, maybe I’ll hang this one over my mantelpiece. After all, I’ll never get a medal for diplomacy!”