Forty minutes later, the old man barely looked like the same person.

His beard was trimmed.

His hair was clean.

His tired face suddenly looked dignified.

The barber removed the cape.

“There you go.”

The old man stared at himself in the mirror.

Then his eyes filled with tears.

“My wife used to cut my hair.”

The barber smiled softly.

“I hope she would approve.”

The old man stood.

Then reached into his torn coat.

The receptionist rolled her eyes.

But instead of money, he pulled out a set of keys.

He placed them on the counter.

The salon went silent.

The receptionist frowned.

“What are those?”

The old man looked at her.

“The keys to this building.”

Her face changed.

He continued,

“I own the property.”

Nobody moved.

“I came here today because I wanted to know how people were treated when nobody thought I was important.”

The receptionist went pale.

The barber stared at him.

The old man turned toward him.

“You saw a man who needed help.”

He pushed the keys across the counter.

“So I’ve made my decision.”

The barber looked confused.

“What decision?”

The old man smiled.

“When your lease ends next month, this salon will need a new owner.”

He closed the barber’s hand around the keys.

“And I think I just found him.”