Friday, April 3, 2009

Haircut


Disengaged.  Warm spring air and sunlight on fresh cut lawns.  From my seat in my English class, I looked through the window at the world outside.  Thinking.  We were discussing Thoreau's "Walden"  and "Civil Disobedience."  Leaving society and rebelling against it, I thought.  That wouldn't be so hard to do.  It was a different sort of heroism.  

I'd been caught.  The V.P. saw me and took me to his office.  He sent me home to get a haircut.  "Why don't you just do everybody a favor and quit school?" he said to me.  I did not like that guy at all.  I just looked at his own thinning hair through which his head was beginning to shine.  His face was a twisted ball of rage and disgust.  Why was he so angry, I wondered?  What had I done to make him say such a thing to me?  

All my life, I had gotten my hair cut at barber shops.  I would go in and take a number and sit in a line of chairs until the next barber was ready.  I liked getting one old guy who seemed to listen to me when he asked me what kind of haircut I wanted, and he made small talk that made the time go by. 

But I had heard about a place that wasn't a barber shop, where the barbers were called stylists and the shop was called a salon.  They were something new as far as I knew, but I decided to try it.  

The salon was in a part of town I didn't go to much, but I spotted a small sign with the name on it.  The entrance didn't have a barber's pole or big panel windows.  It looked more like a house.  I walked through a dark, wooden door into a smallish room with potted plants and mirrors and a reception desk.  Two stylishly dressed men sat in chairs talking.  

"What can I do for you?"  

"I was kicked out of school.  I have to get a haircut."

"Well, let's look at you."  

I took in the room.  There were tables with slick magazines and books about hairstyles.  No sports magazines.  No posters on the wall.  Before I knew it, the man had seated me in a chair that tilted to a sink.  I'd never had anyone wash my hair before.  When he was finished, he massaged my neck and temples.  I was a little dizzy with it all.  

"I'm going to give you a razor cut," he said, and he took out a straight razor like the one a barber used to give a shave.  I could feel the tug of the razor passing over my hair as the stylist began to talk to me and the other fellow watching me.  As he leaned close, I got a whiff of a strong, sweetish smell.  It was not after shave, I thought.  He was wearing some musky, foreign smelling cologne.  

I had entered another world, I kept thinking.  I had no friends who did this.  I wanted somebody I knew to see me.  Where had all this come from?  How long did it exist?  I thought of all the Playboy articles I had read.  When he was done, he turned me toward the mirror.  I couldn't believe it.  I felt like a movie star.  

I had to check in at the office when I got back to school.  The V.P. was to see me before I could go back to class.

"It's not short enough," he barked.  "It's still touching your collar."  

You could hear the hatred in his voice.  I could feel the tears well up in my eyes.  I clenched my fist and swallowed hard.  Goddamn him!  He was going to ruin this.  

My eyes drifted around the room.  I could see the office assistants, women in nondescript dresses, their hair pulled into buns.  There was the brief sound of a typewriter.  A phone rang, then the the loud, metallic bell that marked the end of the class period.  I looked at the clock.  It was lunch time.  Doors opened.  The scuffling of a thousand feet.  I thought I could smell the rolls baking in the cafeteria.  

5 comments:

  1. remember typing pools? rows and rows of ladies at desks -- typing on typewriters?

    atmospheric shit you laid down this morning C.S. --

    i shall steal whatever I can for future use.

    Linda Passafumi -- she was the first "stylist" that cut my hair at her parents salon. Her father was a stylist -- she was a really pretty girl who graduated high school with my older brother

    but she wasn't like the college-bound type -- she smoked cigarettes and had a fast slick Italian boyfriend who drove like a painted up camaro

    I do remember exactly feeling like I had entered some new world going into the salon uptown. She chewed gum and had hair with streaks of color and giant earrings. tight jeans and a tight shirt

    yup.

    Gosh -- what was it with hair and men and that control thing? I probably mentioned somewhere else that I remember countless dinner time discussions going rabid with my father freaking out over my brother Brian's long rockband hair.

    I don't get it. There are such more important things to be concerned about..

    Our Vice Principals always had military looking crew cuts.

    Oh it is nice to have time to write a babble.

    Happy Friday.

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  2. ok, I confess. I'm reading it while I am at work today instead of waiting until I get home. It's one of those days and I needed a respite. I could hear and smell the sounds of the salon as I read. It's amazing how first experiences stay with you. My aunt was a beautician at her home (double wide trailer, actually) so I never went to a salon until I was in high school and working so I could pay for it myself. Went to a fancy salon and a man cut my hair. I thought I had arrived. Anyway...love where you ended the story...perfecting stopping point!

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  3. I remember my first salon visit - everyone went there because of the beautiful Lebanese girl who did the cuts.
    We thought that we were so sophisticted ;-)

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  4. I wonder what the cut off age is for people whose first salon visit wasn't memorable? I wonder if there are barber shops any longer?

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  5. There is the Barber of C'ville here in Centerville.


    really.

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