So Melvin came to me with something that made me question what I was actually seeing.

He said, “Every time I blink, the shop changes.”

I asked him what he meant, and he said, “I’ve been documenting it. Carefully. Every time my eyes close and open, something is different. The chairs are in different positions. The color of the walls shifts. The customers are different. The lighting is different. It’s like I’m blinking between versions of reality.”

I told him that was impossible, but Melvin said, “Watch. Watch my eyes. And watch the shop. Really watch it.”

So I did. I focused on Melvin’s face. I watched him blink. And in that split second when his eyes were closed, I looked at the shop. And something was off. When his eyes opened again, I could have sworn the barber chair was in a slightly different position. Or maybe the lighting was different. Or maybe the wall color was slightly different.

I asked him if he was sure, and he said, “I’m positive. I’ve been tracking it. Every blink. Every change. And I’ve been documenting the variations.”

He showed me his notes. Hundreds of blinks documented. Each one with a description of what changed. “Blink 1: Chair rotated 2 degrees clockwise. Blink 2: Wall color shifted from teal to slightly darker teal. Blink 3: Fluorescent light flickered. Blink 4: Customer in waiting area changed position.”

The list went on and on. Thousands of micro-changes. All happening in the space between blinks.

Melvin said, “I think every time I blink, I slip into a slightly different version of this shop. A parallel version. And when my eyes open again, I’m back in this version. But it’s not exactly the same as before. It’s close. But it’s different.”

I asked him if this was happening to me too, and he said, “I don’t know. Maybe. But I’m the one documenting it. I’m the one paying attention. So I’m the one noticing it.”

Now I’m obsessed with this. I’m trying to notice the changes. I’m trying to catch the shop shifting between versions. But it’s hard. The changes are so subtle. So small. You have to be looking for them to see them.

One day, I asked Melvin to blink slowly so I could watch. He did. And as his eyes were closing, I saw the shop flicker. Like a glitch. Like reality was stuttering. And when his eyes opened, the waiting area was slightly different. The coffee table was moved an inch to the left. I’m sure of it.

Melvin said, “That’s what I’m talking about. Every blink. Every shift. We’re existing in a superposition of realities. And my eyes are the gateway.”

I asked him what that meant, and he said, “It means that when my eyes are open, I’m collapsing the wave function. I’m choosing which version of reality we’re in. And when my eyes are closed, all the versions exist at the same time. And when I open them again, I pick a new one.”

Now I’m terrified because that means Melvin is literally controlling which version of reality we’re in. Every time he blinks, he’s choosing a new version. And we’re all just going along with it. Living in whatever version he selects.

I asked Melvin if he was doing it on purpose, and he said, “I don’t think so. I think it’s just happening. But what if I start doing it on purpose? What if I start choosing specific versions? What if I blink in a pattern and we end up in a version where something terrible has happened?”

I told him not to do that, but Melvin said, “I don’t think I can stop it. The blinking is automatic. I can’t control it. And even if I could, I don’t know which blinks lead to which versions.”

So now I’m watching Melvin constantly. I’m watching his eyes. I’m watching for blinks. And I’m trying to notice the changes in the shop. And every time he blinks, I feel like we’re slipping into a new reality. A new version of this place. And I don’t know if we’ll ever get back to the original.

One time, Melvin blinked and I swear the entire shop rotated ninety degrees. The door was suddenly on a different wall. The barber chairs were in different positions. The layout was completely different. But when I looked again, everything was back to normal. Like it had never happened.

I asked Melvin about it, and he said, “I felt it too. That was a big shift. That was a version where the shop is laid out completely differently. But we didn’t stay there long. I blinked again and we came back.”

Now I’m wondering if there are versions of this shop that are completely different. Versions where the shop is huge. Versions where it’s tiny. Versions where it doesn’t exist at all. And every time Melvin blinks, we might slip into one of those versions.

I asked Melvin if he thought we could get stuck in a bad version, and he said, “Maybe. If I blink the wrong way. If I blink at the wrong time. We could end up in a version where something is terribly wrong. And we’d be stuck there.”

Melvin said, “I think I need to stop blinking. I think that’s the only way to keep us stable. If I keep my eyes open, we stay in this version. We stay here.”

But I know he can’t stop blinking. Nobody can. It’s automatic. It’s involuntary. And every time his eyes close, we slip into a new version. A new reality. And we just have to hope that when his eyes open again, we’re still in a version that’s close enough to this one that we don’t notice.

But I’m noticing. And I’m terrified.

Here’s What We’re Thinking

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Visit Venice Barbershop off US 41, next to the courthouse. We’re the only walk-in barbershop offering hot lather shaves. Walk-ins welcome Tuesday–Friday 9am–6pm, Saturday 10am–2pm. We exist in multiple versions simultaneously. But the haircuts are consistent across all of them.

Look dapper. Try not to blink too much. (We’re trying not to.)