The door to the pool hall on main street always had this "sandlot" mystery to it. I was for-bidden by my parents to enter. Dark things went on behind it. Windows needed cleaned. But that wasn't really it. I knew there was smoking and pool hall stuff happening...the more the mystery, the stronger the pull. My bell bottomed blue jeans were about to walk me straight into the abyss. I just obeyed. You see, it was a barber shop to any passerby looking in. Man in barber chair covered with cape; man with razor cutting hair. All legal, legitimate. The floors were darkened old wood, stained and then stained; the very kind you would walk into any prairie town hardware store and see there too.
The smoke lay heavy in the air(?), the fog on the other side of those windows made a lot of sense now. I made it inside but would have done a quick shoulder check behind me before I closed the door. I had this sense that I was now part of a club. Could I smoke? I was only 12, guess not! Didn't feel quite that comfortable. Sure wanted to light one up and hang it out the side of my mouth while I sunk some balls. So this was it. I made it through that door.
Bob the barber seemed a nice enough proprietor. I did find out soon enough that he adhered to the no smoking for minors. He carried a respect standing with his white barber coat and thin moustache. I kept myself in line whenever I came back.
We all just need to feel needed.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.