The Barber Knew the Date

Dev woke with scissors in his hand and a man asking whether he intended to finish the left side before lunch. The mirror showed a face ten years younger than the one he had seen that morning in 2026. Outside the little shop in Saint Vincent, the year was 2016 and the old sign still hung crooked over the door. Dev was twenty-six again. He had eight thousand East Caribbean dollars saved, one good pair of scissors and a cousin who owed him enough money to become difficult to find. He put the scissors down before his excitement became an unusual haircut.

In the lost decade he had worked hard, remained useful and let every interesting chance pass while waiting to feel ready. His former employer, Len, would eventually own two shops and continue explaining that a barber should be grateful for a reliable chair. Dev had spent years making other men look confident before interviews, weddings and flights. His own clothes had grown tired, his mother had stopped asking when he would visit, and the woman he loved had learned to expect an apology before he arrived. He knew exactly how that life ended: one more late evening, another message postponed and the feeling that he had become an extra in a film everyone else was enjoying.

This time he remembered a date before most people knew what to do with it. Argyle International Airport would open on 14 February 2017. The airport project was already known; the precise remembered date was what made the future feel private. He was not going to buy an imaginary claim on its customers. He wanted to prepare something a traveler, a working barber or a guesthouse could actually use: a durable grooming case with removable sections that could be cleaned, repaired and replaced. He had spent ten years watching cheap zips and badly arranged compartments turn a useful bag into an argument beside a bathroom sink.

Nia was twenty-seven and designed small products while taking work that paid better than people expected creativity to earn. She watched Dev empty his old kit on a table and said the most promising feature was that it appeared to have survived a war with a comb. He asked if she could make a better one. Nia turned the case over, found the seam that had failed and began drawing. She wanted twenty-five percent of a new company for original design work, equipment and a continuing role. Dev would hold sixty and fund the first run. They left fifteen percent for the person who could turn a promising local object into a wider sales operation rather than another box under his bed.

Leah arrived through a friend, twenty-six, a travel writer who also knew how to build a small direct-sales catalogue. She was based between Saint Vincent and regional work, with actual contacts beyond the island and no magical list of hotel orders. Leah examined Nia's first mock-up, put her own things inside and asked why the handsome part had been placed exactly where she needed the handle. Dev laughed. Nia made a note. Leah agreed to contribute continuing sales work and her own equipment for the remaining fifteen percent. The little venture had become 60/25/15 before anybody could flatter themselves into believing friendship would make ownership easier to discuss later.

Their first hundred cases sold for one hundred and twenty East Caribbean dollars each. The twelve-thousand-dollar total included six thousand in buyer deposits, not a second batch of income. Development, materials, paid production and delivery for the run cost seven thousand five hundred. Dev's eight thousand could support the start; the deposits helped the timing without making the work profitable before it was finished. When the final balances cleared, the company had earned four thousand five hundred before shared overhead and taxes and held twelve thousand five hundred in cash. Nia set one finished case beside his old broken kit. Leah said the future man should perhaps frame the old one to remind himself why anybody had paid.

They celebrated after the workday. Nia wore a red dress and let Dev notice before asking whether he intended to make another useful comparison with a zip. He said he had temporarily lost his professional vocabulary. She smiled, sat beside him and rested her hand against his arm. Leah arrived in blue, watched him struggle to remember what he had been saying and asked if she should come back when the conversation had finished loading. Nia laughed and moved a chair closer. Dev discovered that three people could make an ordinary dinner feel dangerously large without anybody saying a word that could be entered in the minutes.

Mia was twenty-five, a dance instructor who had known him before ambition made him late for everything. She caught him outside the shop one evening and asked why he looked pleased with a day that had involved work. Dev said he was trying a different ending. Mia adjusted his collar, took a step back and said the beginning looked promising too. She invited him to a class as a guest, then refused to let him hide at the wall. When the music ended she kept her hand in his and asked whether he had enjoyed following someone who knew where they were going. He said he could imagine becoming a regular customer of the experience.

Before the opening date was officially announced late in 2016, Dev had written 14 February 2017 on a card and sealed it for Nia and Leah. When the airport opened, they read it together. Leah asked whether he had brought back tomorrow's weather as well. Nia asked how long he had known he wanted to kiss her. Dev said that part had become clear without assistance from the future. She put a hand at his collar and gave him a reason to stop explaining. Later Leah kissed him goodbye outside the restaurant and asked him to be as clear about the present as he was being impressive about a date.