Twenty minutes into a haircut, most customers forget they are wearing anything at all, until the snap at the collar releases and the whole cape drops in one motion, like a sail losing its wind. The sound is always the same, a particular crackle of nylon settling over shoulders, a fabric that carries no scent and holds no warmth, chosen for exactly those absences.
It drapes in two long folds from a rounded neck opening cut wide enough for any collar, closed at the throat by a single snap that must survive being fastened and unfastened forty or fifty times a day without losing its grip. Static gathers along the hem by late afternoon, when the shop's humidity drops and every cut hair clings instead of falling. The fabric outperforms cotton on every practical measure: it sheds water, sheds hair, and dries in the time it takes to sweep a floor. What it cannot do is feel like clothing. A cape is worn by a hundred different bodies a week and belongs to none of them, which is precisely what professional equipment is for. The shop keeps three in rotation and retires one when the snap finally gives out, usually within the year.