When I was young and moody any change was good but when you get on the far end of fifty it seems nothing changes for the better nor does it completely heal and so you grieve for the first leaf that falls in autumn and wince when your tennis elbow flares up. So I went to my medical specialist---together we’re putting his kids through college---- pointed to my offending elbow and he injected my arm with steroids and I thanked him. No problemo.
Having mended my wing and contributed to higher education I walked outside into a warm sunny day with clear blue skies which naturally put me the mood for a haircut.
But my barber, Jim, had left town for two weeks. I rode around the city hoping, looking, and slowing down to peer at store fronts that might contain a barber. Finally I found myself in a mall standing in front of a hair salon that said “Professional Hairstylist. Walk-ins Welcome” so I walked in.
Everything was black and white. The floor was black tile and the chairs were black too. The walls were white with big mirrors and there were posters of men and women looking insulted and anemic dressed in black leather with rows of rings in their ears and their thumbs jammed into the front pockets of their jeans. A mobile was suspended from the ceiling made of objects like a tennis ball (black), a spoon (white) and a plastic pair of scissors (black). The magazines had themes about being All Woman--- even the men’s magazines were about that.
A young lady appeared from out of nowhere wearing black leather and white ear rings with black and white streaked hair ---I realized she had been standing in front of me, camouflaged—and said her name was Star and asked me how I was doing. I said I was fine. She appeared to be eighteen but at my age half the population looks eighteen.
“Dja know whatcha want?” she asked chewing and snapping some gum.
I wanted to say “my normal” but I didn’t think Star knew “normal” so I told her just a trim and I shrugged as though this wasn’t a big deal. I’m Baptist, beauty is not what we’re about--- it’s your soul that’s important, that and stories about Hell and being humble.
“First time here?” ( Snap!) She said. I replied yes which completely satisfied her curiosity about me. She began to cut and snip. In ten minutes she removed the black and white zebra patterned smock, turned me to face the mirror and asked “Howszat?” (Snap!)
I looked and saw an aging man whose hair was chopped and spiked-- like it was reacting to low voltage. But I was raised to always be polite so I told her it was fine, thank you very much, paid her and left. If this was a trim then my rear end was a keyboard.
I walked through the mall anticipating to see women swoon and pamphlets thrust at me advertising intervention programs. I found an old NC State baseball cap in my truck and pulled it down tight on my head.
I got home angry and full of regrets about what I should have said, like the way most people get thirty minutes after something happens.
My wife was stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce when I walked in and when she saw me take off my cap she put the big spoon down and said “Well, look at you.”
“Yea?” I growled.
“Yes, you’ve got the most beautiful blue eyes. Come here sailor.”
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