The strange sound of being called, “Sir”

My last haircut in Lismore was at a familiar spot, though by a new face: the forty-something son of a cousin. “Oh yeah, so your mum is Shirley?”, I said. A typical Lismore conversation that was comfortable and fun.

Today was different. The barbershop felt like a youth convention. Everyone was under thirty, some barely out of high school. The young man cutting my hair looked like he was shaving only every other day. It took a while—I could tell he was an apprentice—but I was patient. After all, what can you mess up with a simple “number one all over and a one-and-a-half on the beard”?

“Thank you for your patience,” he said when he was done.

“It’s all good,” I replied, handing over the $25, adding that I thought he did a good job.

“I’ve never actually trimmed a beard before,” he admitted, “I’ve only ever shaved them.” I had a good giggle at that, and also at the fact that he’d quietly consulted with the other barbers several times during my cut.

That feeling of being an elder statesman continued throughout the day. I was checking out the river when I came across two young boys, maybe ten or eleven, debating whether they should fish there.

“This river’s poison!” one declared.

“It’s not,” I told them, suggesting they might catch some catfish or flathead.

“Thank you, sir,” they said in unison.

A little while later, I was at the new skate park, tempted by the curves but wisely keeping my mobility scooter off the ramps. Again, the kids called me “sir.”

The word hit me like a splash of cold water. Sir. It felt completely foreign, absurdly formal in this day and age, and utterly, hilariously odd. It was an involuntary acknowledgement of an age I hadn’t quite realized I’d reached. When I was their age, “sir” was what you called the Headmaster or a policeman, not some random bloke looking at a river. It was a strange, sudden realization: I am so old in comparison. But hey, it’s not so bad, and great to see kids in Lismore are still taught manners.

The rest of the day was spent with old schoolmates and a newer friend at the recently reopened Mecca Cafe. The Mecca is a Lismore legend; they closed just before the 2022 flood. It’s remarkable that the water went up to and over the roof, yet the old chalkboard drawings and price list somehow survived. They’re only doing coffee right now—their legendary banana splits will have to wait—but it was a wonderful chat about old times, and our lives now.

Earlier in the week, my sister died suddenly, and I’ve been home ever since. She had been ill for a number of years, often home on oxygen, and in the end, it came quickly. I’ve been busy organizing things for the funeral, including the slideshow of photographs, writing the euology and liaising with the funeral home. It’s a lot, but it’s what you do.

I’ll have more catch-ups with family and friends before the funeral on Monday. I might write a bit more about my sister after the service.