 They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. I beg to differ. I started out as a gentleman's barber. Sounds pretty stone age I know, but bear with me. I opened up my shop in 99 on Swanson Street. This was the place to be back in those days. There were designer clothes shops, restaurants booked out for months, art galleries and cafes. My place rode the fashionable wave and style. I offered hot towel shaves using a cutthroat razor and classic hairstyles. I had my services and prices painted in a beautiful script on the window. Most weeks, I'd see someone taking a photograph of the shop. Carefully considered shots from the time taken. It even featured in a glossy weekend supplement. I still have a copy. Boy, do I look stiff. Stand in an opposed portrait in front of the door. Good times. Five years of them. And then the drift began. New areas of the city were being gentrified and offering cheaper retail rents for bigger premises. The chefs lauded by the food riders were tempted away by bigger salaries. One once fashionable domino after another fell, and the empty units began to dominate the street. I stayed put. I liked my shop. I liked my regulars, though there were less and less of them as time went on. In 2011, my window was broken for the first time. The lettering in numbers that had been skillfully applied had faded in the rain, but they were still little works of art in my eyes. I felt sick to my stomach as I surveyed the damage. I don't think it was attempted robbery. It was just a mindless act. I spent money I'd set aside for basic bills on new glass and new hand paid in signage. Six months later, it happened again. I had plain glass fitted and shutters, which I pulled down at the end of a shift. My heart was still in it, though. I loved being a barber. I loved chatting to my customers. And I always took my time and did the best possible job I could call it good old fashioned pride. I was open seven days a week from 7am to 6pm and lived in a small apartment over the shop. There was a storage room next to the salon as well, which I used for storage and to do the books. I never married. I was in love once, crazy with it, but we won our separate ways. I try not to have regrets. Some days I succeed. Some days I fail. In 2015, I was beaten up when I was opening the shop up. Again, I don't think there was any thought of robbery. From the way they laughed and hollered, kicking the hell out of me and spitting on me as I lay curled up on the sidewalk seemed reward enough for the two men who attacked me. It was three months before I was well enough to open the shop again. A few days after I took this tentative step to getting my life back on track, a young man came into the shop. Blood ran from his nose and one of his eyes was swollen and starting to close. Can I use your restroom? He asked in a shaky voice. I helped him upstairs, where he could at least wash his face in the bathroom. It turned out he'd been attacked feet away from the shop. When I asked him why he replied because I'm not like them. I didn't press him any further. He called around a couple of weeks later to say thank you. He brought a young woman with him. She was very quiet and looked around the shop skittishly. They were about to leave when she asked, can you cut my hair? She had long, auburn hair that fell almost to her waist. Gee, I said, I'm not the right person to cut your hair. She looked at me and said, I think you are exactly the right person to cut my hair. So I feel more like me. I didn't press her any further. I sat her down and while her friend waited, we spent the rest of the day cutting and styling her hair. The next morning, another young man walked into the shop. He wore a bandana on his head, told me that he felt low because of burns to his scalp. He'd suffered years ago in an accident. And it heard that I was a nice guy who might be able to help. I didn't even get as far as Gee just said I'd do my best without me even planning it without an end in mind. Over the next two years, my gentleman's barber shop slowly transformed. I'd always worked on my own before, but I took on two members of staff. Both had qualified at college as beauticians, but that was such a limited term for what they did. The way they helped people. The shop's opening hours also changed over time. We'd vary. Sometimes it was a standard 8am to 5pm. Sometimes we'd open up at midnight, close at dawn, because some people felt more comfortable at night. We didn't discriminate. We just wanted to be there. As for the people who walk through our door, there's no definitions I can apply. Sometimes there are people with visible scars, some heartbreakingly so. Some, maybe, whose scars are carried inside them. We never ask for anyone to explain, but we always try and listen if anyone does want to talk. So, yeah, that's me. That's what I do. I'm sorry if I haven't explained it very well. It feels a lot of the time that the world keeps shifting. And I'm a man growing old in my little shop and doing the best I can. Something happened last night though, something which has thrown me. We'd close the shop early evening after a 6am start, and as ever I was left alone. My back ached, and I felt like a cold beer. I was giving downstairs one final check over. Everything had been cleaned and packed away. It was all fine. And then I heard anger, raised voices, someone out in the street shouting, Freak, where are you hiding? A second voice. Yes, come back. Show your filthy face. I tensed, told myself this was none of my business. I took out my mobile. I should just call the police. But I knew how long they took to respond to request to help from around here. The rich folks got priority in this city. Fact. A bottle smashing made me jump. Freak. I swore I couldn't just hide in the shop. I had to try and do something. My skin felt like it was turning to ice, and my hands shook as I unlocked the shop door. Ever since I'd been attacked, I'd suffered from panic attacks. This was a nightmare situation for me. I tried to swallow. My throat was tight. I started to feel like I couldn't breathe. I pushed the door, tried to see the people who were shouting. But the street was empty. Apart from the figure crouched down in the doorway opposite. They were a dark shape. Hiding, I thought. Afraid. I tried to get their attention, waved, said in a quiet voice. Over here. They weren't the only one who was scared. At last they looked up. It was a man. His face was pale. Over here. I said again, and gestured that he should come to the door. He glanced nervously up and down the street, then hurried towards me. Look, I said. I don't know what their problem with you is, but you can shelter in my shop if you want. He nodded and followed me back inside. With a shutter still down over the window, the shop would look dark from the outside. The man was breathing heavily. You shouldn't have helped me, he said. A bead of sweat dropped from his face onto the floor, and he sounded terrified as he spoke. Those men who were after me, they suspect me of being something. They won't stop looking. You're safe in here, I said. The man shook his head. You're not? What do you mean? I asked. He looked me in the eye, and I saw darkness in his gaze. Beyond the clouds it calls. He said, each word a struggle. It screams in all its terrible majesty, and I cannot resist. Suddenly, his head jerked upwards, and the sinews on his neck seemed to become more prominent. He reached out. His fingers twisted like claws, as his skin was lost beneath dark, thick fur. His face blossomed into a snout, beneath which fangs glistened. I froze. My fear of earlier meant nothing. The terror that consumed me at that moment was beyond reason. The thing that the man had become, the beast, snarled. We were inches apart, and its breath was a burning, fetid wind on my face. Freak, someone shouted outside. You're dead when we get our hands on you. The beast pursuers were back. If I can get to the door, tell them it's here. I'll be safe, I thought. The beast's low, guttural snarl continued. Its ears were raised as well now. It had heard them, and its jaws slowly opened as it stared with primal intensity at the door. Seconds, I thought. That's all it'll take. And got ready to make my move. Freak, the shouting continued in the street. I hesitated. Freak was a word I'd heard too many times in my life. People I knew had had this shouted at them. People who came to my shop had told me they'd been abused because others thought they were freaks. I knew then that I couldn't expose this beast. Strange as it seemed in my eyes, as scared as I was of it. If I turned against it because it had been branded a freak, then I was betraying everything I believed in. I remained still and tried to breathe slowly. The voices outside continued to call, but grew quieter. The beast listened until the world fell away into silence. It's past dawn now, and the man who is just a man again, fragile and flawed, is asleep in the room next to the salon. After the men outside had gone, the beast had backed away from me and curled up in a corner there. Its breaths came ragged, and its body swayed from side to side. It seemed to be caught in some terrible conflict within itself. Was it fighting against the urge to hurt me? I don't know. But as the light grows, I open the shutters and get the shop ready to open. There's a new day ahead. What it will bring is unknown, but I will try my best to face it with an open mind and love in my heart.