I kind of resent this attitude of men that we somehow must always

Host: The city night hummed with the sound of rain and neon sighs. Reflections trembled across wet pavement, catching the glow of billboards and car lights, blurring beauty into something raw, restless, and real.

Inside a small, old-fashioned barbershop, mirrors lined the walls, each one holding ghosts of faces past. The radio crackled faintly with jazz, lazy and slow, drifting like smoke through the warm air.

Jack sat in the barber’s chair, a cape draped around his shoulders, his grey eyes distant, watching his own reflection without really seeing it. Jeeny, sitting on the bench by the window, her hair damp from the rain, watched him with that quiet amusement that came from knowing him too well.

Pinned to the mirror frame, half-hidden behind an old photograph, was a quote written in neat, faded handwriting:
“I kind of resent this attitude of men that we somehow must always look good.” — Sharon Gless.

Jeeny: “You ever think about that?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “The quote. Sharon Gless.”

Jack: “You mean the part where she’s wrong?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Of course you’d say that.”

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. We don’t ‘have’ to look good. We just know the world treats you better when you do.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what she meant.”

Jack: “No — she meant resentment. I call it realism.”

Jeeny: “Realism isn’t the same as surrender.”

Jack: “And idealism isn’t the same as freedom.”

Host: The barber’s scissors clicked like a metronome to their rhythm of disagreement, each snip a punctuation mark in the air. Outside, the rain whispered against the glass, muting the world beyond this room of mirrors and light.

Jeeny: “You think appearance is control, don’t you?”

Jack: “It’s currency.”

Jeeny: “So you admit it — you’re buying respect.”

Jack: “Everyone is. Just with different price tags. You dress sharp, you speak less, you earn credibility before you open your mouth.”

Jeeny: “That’s exhausting.”

Jack: “That’s life.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s performance.”

Jack: “Performance pays rent.”

Jeeny: “And costs identity.”

Host: The barber paused, smiling faintly, pretending not to listen, but his eyes in the mirror betrayed quiet interest. The radio static softened, giving way to a female jazz vocalist, her voice smoky, tired, but tender — a song that sounded like truth trying not to cry.

Jeeny: “You men walk around pretending you don’t care about how you look, but you care more than anyone. You wear your image like armor.”

Jack: “It’s not armor. It’s presentation. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “Armor protects. Presentation hides.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with hiding? You ever walk into a boardroom full of people waiting to size you up? They don’t listen to words first — they see the suit, the posture, the shoes. It’s not vanity. It’s survival.”

Jeeny: “Funny how men always talk about survival when what they really mean is approval.”

Jack: “Approval’s oxygen.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s addiction.”

Host: The mirror caught both their faces in reflection — Jack’s sharp, controlled, carefully arranged, while Jeeny’s glowed softly, unadorned, comfortable in its imperfection. The contrast was almost cinematic — two philosophies captured in one frame of glass.

Jeeny: “You know, women have lived with that pressure for centuries. Makeup, hair, posture, the smile that hides fatigue. And now men are starting to feel it too — the constant need to polish themselves into acceptability. I can’t say I pity you, but… I recognize the trap.”

Jack: “Trap?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. The idea that looking good equals being good. That perfection earns peace.”

Jack: “But it does, doesn’t it? When you look put-together, people leave you alone. You look in control.”

Jeeny: “You don’t look in control, Jack. You look contained. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Contained feels safer.”

Jeeny: “So does a coffin.”

Host: The barber coughed softly, a warning that the metaphors were getting dangerous. But neither of them heard him. The conversation had become its own mirror, reflecting and cutting all at once.

Jack: “You think I should just let myself go? Grow a beard, wear sweatpants, stop caring?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you should stop mistaking appearance for worth. There’s a difference between caring and conforming.”

Jack: “But you care too. You put on makeup. You dress up. Why?”

Jeeny: “Because I want to — not because I have to.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference, really?”

Jeeny: “Choice. You dress to control perception. I dress to express feeling.”

Jack: “Expression gets judged too.”

Jeeny: “Then let them judge.”

Jack: “That’s easy for you to say.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s hard for me to live. But I do it anyway.”

Host: The mirror fogged faintly from Jack’s breath, blurring his reflection. For a moment, it was just a smear of color, a ghost of form — imperfect, honest. He stared at it longer than he intended.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder who you’d be if you weren’t busy trying to look like him?”

Jack: “Who?”

Jeeny: “The man in the mirror.”

Jack: “He’s the only one that gets me through the day.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. He’s the one you hide behind when the day gets to you.”

Host: The rain outside had slowed, drizzling now, steady, soft. The sound of scissors stopped. The barber unclipped the cape, the hair falling to the floor like small truths, unspoken but visible.

Jack looked at his reflection again — clean-cut, precise, but sadder somehow, as though the edges of his face had been sharpened by years of pretending confidence.

Jack: “You think Sharon Gless was right — that it’s resentment?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Resentment wrapped in pride.”

Jack: “Maybe it’s not resentment. Maybe it’s exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “The two usually hold hands.”

Jack: “We dress up, keep our faces straight, stay stoic. And when we finally fall apart, we still worry if it looks dignified.”

Jeeny: “That’s the real tragedy — not that you’re expected to look strong, but that you’ve forgotten how to look human.”

Host: The barber turned away, pretending to tidy his tools, but his eyes lingered — because truth, when spoken plainly, always fills the room like music that refuses to fade.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to break your reflection to be real, Jack. Just stop mistaking it for the man.”

Jack: (quietly) “You ever wish the world didn’t see faces first?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Jack: “You ever stop caring?”

Jeeny: “Never. But I stopped apologizing.”

Host: The rain outside ceased, leaving the streets gleaming, mirrors laid out by the sky itself. Jack stood, reaching for his coat, pausing at the mirror one last time.

His own eyes stared back, clear, tired, but — for the first time in a long while — unmasked.

Jack: “Maybe we’re all just trying to look okay long enough to be believed.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe being believed starts when we stop trying to look okay.”

Host: She rose, walked beside him, and together they stepped out into the cold night, the neon signs flickering across the wet street, painting them in broken colors — a man and a woman, both worn, both seen, both beautifully unfinished.

The camera lingered, fading slowly on the empty chair and fogged mirror, as Sharon Gless’s words echoed softly, like a truth whispered after the music fades:

“I kind of resent this attitude of men that we somehow must always look good.”

And outside, under the wet glow of the city,
Jack smiled — not perfectly,
but honestly.