Three friends-hairdressers have been coming to the military hospital every week for the fourth month. Here they shave and cut hair for free, and also support wounded soldiers — a report

1

In the backyard of the hospital it is lively this morning. A blonde volunteer in an embroidered dress hands out coffee to soldiers.

― Happy National Day, guys, thank you! ― she greets the soldiers.

— Thank you, thank you. They [the Russians] greeted us in the morning, 30 rockets were fired at us, — they answer and laugh.

Before the entrance, Max, Sashko and Misha also drink volunteer coffee and plan their day. Hairdressers come to the hospital to cut hair of military personnel, and sometimes of nurses and doctors who donʼt have time for themselves at work.

Maksym and Sashko have known each other for 17 years and look like brothers — both tall, with clear facial features, gray-blue eyes, and neat beards. Only Maksym is in all black, his hair is dark blond, and Sashko is fair-haired, in light clothes. They laugh all the time and jokingly call each other "kotik” (“kitten”). In such a company the younger and silent Misha, who works in Sashkoʼs salon, seems even quieter and shyer. And yet, they have been a harmonious team for the fourth month already — they were the first to start volunteering in the hospital in May, first Misha and Sashko, who invited Max to join a few weeks later.

Inside the building there are several corridors, a large recreation room, and a corridor with wards. In one of these rooms, Max sets up his current workplace.

— Yes, girls, — he turns to the nurses, — who wants [to make a haircut] today?

Nurses come to the living room one by one. In the adjacent bathroom, Sashko and Misha are already cutting hair for the military. They cut in silence — only the monotonous sound of the machine, the rustling of the scissors and the brush can be heard. On the wall there is a calendar for the year 2022, old posters in ethnic style, and a black A4 sheet with print letters: "155th day of defense of Ukraine".

Max pulls out a roll of tools from his shoulder bag. The black-haired nurse is already sitting in the chair.

— What are we doing? ― he clarifies, wrapping her in a camouflage cape.

— Just the hair, Iʼve already combed it, — the nurse smiles, turning to Max.

In the past, Max was the champion of Ukraine in the art of hairdressing. He cuts quickly and easily, and it is only faintly noticeable that itʼs difficult for him to raise his right arm: it becomes numb due to the stress and worries of the last months.

2

Max is 40, he comes from Dniprodzerzhynsk — now Kamyanske. He received the knowledge of how to cut hair from his father — "batya”, as the hairdresser calls him in conversation. When Max was in the 11th grade, dad asked to cut his hair and watched the process in two mirrors. From that time, Max began to cut hair for neighbors and acquaintances, entered a hairdressing school and after a year and a half of study went to work in Kharkiv. And then, in 2000, in Russia. After just two months he returned to Ukraine — couldnʼt stand the atmosphere around him. Got a job in a Kyiv salon and already within a year he received the title of champion of Ukraine in the art of hairdressing. In a few years, he became the art director of a subsidiary salon, but at 26 he decided to work for himself and rented an office. When the first daughter was born, Max realized that he needed to earn more, grow in his profession — and opened his own salon. He stopped working twice — during the 2020 lockdown and on February 24, 2022.

— I told my wife that we will definitely not leave Kyiv [on February 24], — he says. ― Firstly, this is the most protected city, secondly, it would be necessary to join the defense.

It almost happened. On the very first day, Max and his neighbors in Sofiivska Borshchagivka united in an unofficial territorial defense and began patrolling the area. They planned to defend themselves from marauders, but in the end, after three weeks, they already had weapons, ammunition, walkie-talkies and became an official formation that cooperated with the Ukrainian Armed Forces. They patrolled their district and the town of Vyshneve, dug trenches, shot down enemy drones.

During this short time, Max took his wife and daughter to the western part of Ukraine, then moved them abroad, became a chaplainʼs assistant, started gathering and providing humanitarian aid, and returned to Kyiv. In April, he went to Okhmatdyt for the first time to cut hair for children and staff who practically lived in the hospital premises for two months.

― This always works: you see your reflection in the mirror and you are satisfied with at least something, ― he explains. ― All the information around is negative. And people should be happy about something in this life, it is necessary.

In May, Max joined Sashko and Misha and now cuts hair of the military men at the hospital every Thursday. They arrive at 10 oʼclock and leave late in the evening. Boys with minor injuries, those who have lost an arm or a leg, and those who canʼt get out of bed get their hair cut. Max says that it is technically more difficult to work with them, but they manage — they spread diapers on the bed, cover the fighter with a cape, lift his head, and carefully cut his hair. Sometimes along with the hair the skin gets removed. They always use talcum powder, bring packets of shampoos and gels with them, so that the boys can wash themselves without getting up from under the drippers.

— Itʼs impossible to get used to this, — says Max. ― My brain simply does not accept the stories I hear there, even the chaplains are crying there. And we also immediately need to hear the pain of a person. We never ask, we never impose, but we try to cheer up and support when possible. However, all the talk is about the war and about the family.

Max had never volunteered before. He considered himself apolitical. The beginning of the war in 2014 seemed to pass him by. Now, not a single stone has been left unturned from the previous position — even Maxʼs six-year-old daughter dreams of "hitting Putin in the head with a sneaker."

3

In another building of the hospital, the local staff tried to make the living room a homely one — it has a soft sofa, books, flower pots, and a miraculously working old pot-bellied TV. A military man sits in front of it and listens to the news about the de-occupation of Kherson Oblast. He is listening — he lies softly between the pillows, his head wrapped in bandages, his eyelids so swollen that his eyes cannot be seen.

Misha approaches the nurse on duty:

— Good day. Will someone get a haircut?

— Weʼll know it now, — she smiles and goes into the first ward nearby. Then gently says: — We have Valik, he is the youngest and wants to be the most beautiful, right, Valik?

Valik enters the toilet, which has been turned into a temporary hairdressing salon — a wooden chair has been placed in front of the open window. Misha asks:

— Do you have any preferences?

Half of Valikʼs head is swollen. Thick stitches with scars are still fresh on the cheek and temple. It is difficult for him to speak, but Misha understands the most common word from several syllables: "short" — and turns on the trimmer. Valik grimaces slightly and blinks more often when Misha runs it over the swollen part of the back of the head. An air raid siren wails outside the window — the fourth since the start of the day.

It was Misha who first started cutting hair and shaving in this hospital as a volunteer — back in 2019. Then he helped the liberated war prisoners. He came back here again for one haircut this winter. And started coming to the hospital regularly since May.

Here, all conversations in each department are practically the same:

— Any preferences?

— Shorter.

Someone pronounces this clearly, someone hisses individual syllables, someone hums and shows with gestures. Some boys come on their own legs, others rely on crutches, someone drives in on a gurney, pushing off with the only surviving limb.

— Beard? ― Misha asks briefly.

— Unitl victory, — almost everyone answers. That is, do not touch the beard yet.

Everyone who comes to Misha is somewhat similar — and not only in terms of hairstyles. They look much older of their age. Even the youngest have gray hair. Their eyebrows are tensely raised on the bridge of the nose. They look absentmindedly. And donʼt blink.

The only exception today is a round-faced cheerful older man.

― Hey, rate my haircut first, ― he says, sitting down on a chair. He tilts his head, as if showing Misha the back of it, so that the master could see it better. — And tell me. Because I cut my hair myself. With one mirror only.

— And what result would you like? As short as possible? ― asks the reserved Misha.

— Well, who knows... Army-style. Because [Iʼll go] again to serve. In Bakhmut.

Misha turns on the trimmer. Shaves the temples. They briefly discuss the menu and treatment in the hospital. He completes the haircut with scissors — the whole process takes ten minutes.

In another ten minutes, when Misha is already cutting another manʼs hair, the older man lightly slaps me on the shoulder:

— And give this to the master, itʼs a thank-you, — he says and tries to give me 100 hryvnias.

— No, no, itʼs free, — I say, and the man, waving his hand, quickly goes into the makeshift barber shop, deftly puts the money in Mishaʼs bag with tools, and happily runs back to the ward.

— We will give it to the Armed Forces! — shouts a puzzled Misha after him, not releasing the switched-on trimmer. He shrugs his shoulders and says to me. — And this happens here too.

4

Sashko started cutting hair at the age of fifteen — during the first haircut, he cut off a piece of a neighborʼs boyʼs ear. Now, at 44, and he is the owner of a barbershop in the center of Kyiv.

Like Max, he learned to cut hair from his father, who was visited by friends. Sashko was engaged in dancing, graduated from a music school learning to play four instruments, from a DJing school, and hairdressing was just another creative activity.

— After the army, I had to do something, — he says. ― Mom suggested a music conservatory, but I didnʼt want to spend her money on it. I was making good money playing at parties in Kyiv, but I wanted a normal profession.

When his aunt reminded Sashko about his talent for hairdressing, he decided to master this profession and went to a course in a dormitory in one of the residential areas of Kyiv. After six months of training, he got a job in one of the numerous salons of the network, which had branches all over Kyiv — in order to have as many clients as possible and to improve. To get to work, he left his home in Sviatopetrivske village (5 km from Kyiv) at 6 AM, walked two kilometers across a field to Vyshneve town, took a bus from there to the Sviatoshyn metro station, which was then the last one, and from there he drove to the opposite side of Kyiv — his salon was on Lisova station. After a year and a half of work, Sashko was fired for being 10 minutes late.

Sashko changed several salons and eventually opened his own in Boyarka town — he was a hairdresser, and his wife did manicures. However, after two years, the salon was closed — it was not profitable. In 2013, he moved to one of the first Ukrainian chains of barbershops.

— I quickly rose to the status of a top barber, started teaching others, — he says. ― And in 2018 I opened my own barbershop ― my godfather and I made repairs there, my father-in-law made the furniture.

Misha became one of Sashkoʼs employees. In 2019, he offered Sashko to do haircuts for the military men in the hospital. It was their first experience of volunteering. In May of this year, Sashko remembered about Misha again.

— We came here for the first time at the beginning of May, — he says. ― Then we saw how many guys needed our services and started coming every week.

Sasha tries not to feel anything when he comes here. Like itʼs just a job. Sometimes he thinks that he is grateful for the opportunity to walk and see — for example, when he cuts the head of a military man in intensive care before an operation.

— But I come home and we drink a bit [of alcohol] with my wife — not much, — he says and adds. — To be honest, if I could, I would go abroad — I donʼt know if I would stay there forever, but at least I would try. But now Iʼm here, and Iʼm glad that Iʼm doing at least minimal good for our guys. And itʼs enough for me that someone just says "thank you".

5

Almost no one asks Sashko to make it "shorter" — they ask "to make it beautiful". Even beards that cannot be shaved until the victory. Sashko carefully trims them from the sides to make a nice and clear shape. With the military, he jokes, winks, laughs, throws short phrases in the conversation.

In the last department of the hospital, there are many people willing to get a haircut: a black-haired, round-faced bearded man; a guy with an embroidered tattoo on his forearm; a nondescript man in a gray T-shirt; a smiling gray-haired blue-eyed soldier; the only one among them who is silent, in camouflage clothes; and a cheerful man in a cart, with bandaged hands and feet.

— The fragments were removed from the eye, then the left one began to see, — he says, while Sashko puts a cape on him. There are burn marks on the face, hidden here and there behind a thin beard. — I have already grown in three weeks here. But donʼt make me bald, and please trim my beard to just half of its length.

— So, when the war is over, you will shave off your beard? ― Sashko says pretending to be disappointed.

— Probably not anymore, Iʼm used to it.

— Yes, thatʼs what Iʼm talking about. If a real man has already grown a beard, he will walk with it, — says Sashko and further advises how to care about a beard and what hair growth products to use.

— Five months... — The man says in a moment. — At the front in the trenches, there is nowhere to shave. Skin irritation begins.

The topic is set. Men discuss shaving in the trenches, haircuts, the ban on mustaches in Soviet times, Zelenskyʼs beard, gatherings with friends in the garage, alcohol. Sashko sets the tone of the conversation from time to time, sometimes he just listens, sometimes he tells stories about his brother who is a military man.

Everyone falls silent for a few minutes, and Sashko concentrates on cutting the back of the head of the next soldier — the one in camouflage.

— What would we do without these volunteers, huh? — a man in a gray T-shirt breaks the silence. — It would be a complete mess.

— You canʼt get through the words away from a song, — Sashko says, and later adds: — You would do something. Someone earns money, and someone pulls everything on himself.

— Well, this all is just crazy, just crazy. Who am I fighting for?... ― the man continues almost in despair.

There is a second pause, and the man on the cart looks up at his brothers:

— For your land. They came to our land.

— Well, yes... Itʼs correct... — the first man says awkwardly.

— I donʼt care who is in power, what is there. They came to my land. What does "whom I fight for" mean? What do you have to do with them, if this is your land?

— Why not take away all the villas and their wealth from the lawmakers?... They are stealing...

— This is war. They came to kill us. When the war is over, we will do something, — the man on the cart repeats firmly.

Everyone falls silent for a few minutes. Only the calm humming of the trimmer can be heard.

Translated from Ukrainian by Anton Semyzhenko.

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