by Chris Fink
This is his first real haircut, the cowboy says. I been cutting it myself at home till now. Till now that’s been all right, but the wife thinks Little Man ought to have a real haircut. You feel a twinge of sympathy for the boy. His father has a shaggy handlebar mustache. He seems good-natured enough—a cowboy like in those movies, the one you’re supposed to root for.
Let’s step up to the chute then, Little Man, Alex says. He spreads the drop cloth like a cape. I promise to go easy on you since it’s your first time through. The boy doesn’t look up, so the barber walks toward him. From his shirt pocket peer two silver curves, the tops of his scissors. The barber makes a little show of stepping over the black tiles and pausing on the white ones, trying to capture the boy’s downcast gaze. But Little Man isn’t having any. He crams onto his father’s lap, burying his face in his father’s denim shirt. Cowboy tries to peel him off, and when he does, you catch a glimpse of the boy’s face. He’s a pale, tow-headed boy, but his face has reddened now, a shade lighter than the chairs. He doesn’t appear to be breathing.
The barber gives the boy some ground. Let’s see what I have to put Little Man more at ease, he says. He walks over to the shelves lining the walls, still stepping over the black tiles. He begins to finger some of the dozens of model cars, each in clear plastic boxes, each the size of a good-sized hand. I’ve got every make of car ever manufactured on American soils, he says, handling a red, late-fifties T-Bird. The boy casts a look up from under his hat, up to his father, then up further yet to the barber and the line of boxed cars. Alex seems to be searching for just the right car. He handles others the same vintage as the T-Bird, then moves along the shelf toward the present day. The boy watches him fully now. He breathes a small gulp of air.
Looking at the barber from behind, with his head tilted back, you can see that Alex is blessed with a full head of hair—no tell-tale thinning in the center of his scalp. He has deep black hair yet—probably dyed. He seems more Italian in the pictures taped along the mirror, of himself as a confident young soldier. Somehow the Italianness of the older man standing here fussing over the model cars has receded. Neither the barber’s age nor his ethnicity is evident. You know he’s a Vietnam veteran, which means he has to be in his sixties. But he could pass for a decade younger. In the picture, he made a fine-looking soldier. Except for the uniform, he could have been a soldier in any of our wars.
The barber’s fingers settle on a box and lift it gently, like a trophy. This, Little Man, is a ’66 Ford Mustang ragtop. I bought this vehicle when I got back from the service. She’s got two hundred wild ponies under the hood. He kneels close to Little Man, leaning in, leading with the clear plastic box. The other hand he’s got against his thigh, palming the scissors. Somehow he made the switch. Little Man shows two rows of straight white teeth. In his fist, the barber’s scissors glint.
The barber holds the box closer now. Inside the box the Mustang is sky blue. The barber talks softly, expertly, coaxing the boy. Look at the chrome ornament on the grille, he says. It’s a chrome pony, just like a real pony. I used to polish the chrome pony before I took her out. Alex looks up at Cowboy smiling and then back to the Little Man. Go on. Take her out, he says. He pushes the box toward the boy and the boy reaches to accept.
The barber is poised to jerk back the offering and seize the boy’s thin wrists. But of course he does not. Of course he hands the box over. Little Man slides his tiny fingers under the lid of clear plastic, loosening it. The lid falls open. The boy tilts the box, and the sky-blue Mustang hesitates, then rolls out.
She’s a beaut, Little Man says. The barber stands up then, steps back, and crosses his strong bare arms. He still holds the scissors in one fist. For a moment, it’s quiet and still in the barbershop.
Why don’t you go on ahead, Cowboy says to you. We’re in no hurry, and this thing might take a while. You go on first.
The cowboy’s offering startles you. You’ve been watching the scene over the nude pictures in the magazine, and you realize you’ve been holding your breath. Something has just been narrowly averted. The pages feel slick and vulgar in your fingers. You replace the glossy magazine on the stack, arise from the comfortable chair, somewhat dizzily, and approach the barber.
Back at his station, Alex makes his ceremonious preparations with the neck cloth and drop cloth. Short haircut, Danny?
Yes, short haircut, but don’t go above the ears. Tomorrow my mother visits from Wisconsin, and that’s the way she likes it.
Special haircut for Mom, then, Alex says, and spins you around to face the mirror. He won’t cut your hair in this position—he’ll face you away from the mirror. He doesn’t like you to watch him while he cuts your hair. You yourself would rather not watch. On the counter by the mirror sits a wide-mouthed jar filled with blue liquid and various combs and scissors. All these scissors remind you of an article you read about how, historically, barbers kept the sharpest and most sterile instruments in town. For this reason, they were not only barbers but also doctors and veterinarians. The red-and-white swirl of the barber pole signaled to townsfolk, and to passersby, that bloodletting occurred here.
Alex dedicates some attention to the natural cowlick in your hair, massaging in some sort of product. Alex’s face is directly above your face in the mirror. Looking at the two of you in the mirror, you see that you could be Alex’s hijo. The word comes to you in Spanish, surprising you. You never went to the barbershop as a boy. Your father, career military, did all the barbering.
Alex has selected the appropriate attachment for his clippers, and now he spins the chair smoothly back around and begins to cut. The clippers buzz deeply in your skull and teeth, and the barber’s strong fingers hold your temples. Alex cuts expertly and quickly during this part of the operation. Generally speaking, he worked quickly over a head of hair until he got to the finish work, the short clipping of the individual hairs and the shaping and shaving of the short hairs around the ears and neck.
Now, Alex is unusually quiet. The strong, unmistakably male fingers work on your scalp. You would rather have your hair cut by a man. When a beautician runs her fingers through your hair, brushing you with her pelvis and chest, you feel the weight of her hope and regret. With a man, the contract has no hidden dangers. Yes, it’s better to have a man. The question of preference is solved easily enough by recalling simply that your father had cut your hair, not your mother. Your earliest associations with this shearing ritual were male associations.
The barber pauses for a moment and walks to the window. He twists the thin plastic stick that opens the blinds, and blush evening light floods the barbershop, fitting everything in the room with low-slung shadows. Outside, the cars flow down the expressway. The barber walks back to his station. You squint, glancing down at Alex’s watch. His watch is set to military time, not California time. It’s six o’clock California time. No rest for the wicked, Alex says. I’ll have to phone I’ll be late for supper.
Outside, the red-and-white barber pole is spinning. When you walked in, it was still.
That thing just goes berserk, Alex says.
In the ruddy light, the red swirls of the barber pole appear black. Just then a tight group of four Latino boys walks by the front of Alex’s shop. They seem to be coming from the hair-and-nails place next door. They loiter about awhile outside laughing and talking in Spanish until the barber waves them off with both arms. Go on, he says. We’re closed.
Three of the four wear dark, hooded sweatshirts with Greek letters on the front. They wear their hoods up. You noticed this before, a trend from your childhood come back round. You used to wear your own sweatshirt hood up, to hide your shaved head.
What goes on there next door? you ask. Cowboy looks up, also interested. Alex is through with the clippers for now. He scissors rapidly at the sides of your scalp. The hair falls in thick, dark clumps on the drop cloth.
Don’t get me started on next door, Alex says. Mexican woman runs the place. She don’t own a license. I w
arned her the inspector’s past due. It’s none of my business. Hair, nails, massage. Who knows, maybe she’s hooking too. It’s none of my business if she’s hooking, but the inspector is liable to show up.
Alex pushes your head forward gently, yet firmly. He’s working on the back of your head now. From this awkward angle, you see the shelves along the barber chair with various products for sale: shampoo, talc, motor oil, hair gel, bug killer. A thin layer of dust coats the products. The barber has never tried to hawk these items. On the side of the shelf facing the corner, in clear plastic packages, hang what appear to be WWII-vintage gas masks. You’ve never noticed these before. There are two of them, olive drab. They hang from heavy nails. There is no dust on the packaging. Alex abruptly lifts your chin.
How are things down at the Lazy L? he says. Are you gearing up for the troop surge?
The room spins a little. Cowboy looks up from his magazine at the mention of the Lazy L. Little Man has moved off the chair, and he’s taking the Mustang in figure eights between the different-colored tiles, idling low in his throat. Behind them, behind the legion of die-cast cars on the top shelf, a framed picture of a capital letter B is tipped on its side. B is for Barbershop. Or maybe Alex’s last name begins with a B, who knows. The B is a blocked letter, just a big black letter B with a white background, except that, sideways, the two curved bulges of the B bulge upward like bellies.
Well? Alex asks.
Your company has been in the news each day, the wall of protesters and their picket signs about murdering and war profiteering. Working at the Lazy L these last months, you feel like an abortionist. You want to tell Alex you’re just a GM worker with a bigger paycheck. Instead you say, The usual, you know how it is. Just sucking clock.
At this moment two successive percussions explode from the front window. Like two birds have dive-bombed the glass, one after the other. The glass pulsates, but it doesn’t shatter. Everyone in the barbershop is stunned.
Sons of bitches, Alex says. Think they can terrorize me in my own place. He makes a move toward the door, then stops. A voice calls from outside—La puta que te parió!—followed by two more explosions.
Eggs. Those boys have egged the barbershop window.
Cowboy snaps his magazine shut. We under attack here? he says. Little Man is still spread-eagle on the floor, but he’s frozen. His turn is coming, he seems to know. Get up out of the dirt, Cowboy says. He pulls his son up by a rear belt loop, jackknifing him and sending the Mustang flying. Little Man comes easily but his hat falls off, loosening his straw hair. The Mustang winds up overturned on a white square. Seeing this, Little Man’s bottom lip curls. You can see he’s fighting it, but he can’t hold back the waterworks any longer.
Alex inspects the damage at the storefront, which is a mess. Gelatinous egg matter runs like snot down the entire façade. Ahh, he groans, like he’s injured. I’ll clean that up later. He picks up the Mustang and returns to the barber chair, but he’s unsteady. He puts the Mustang on the counter by the blue jar and picks up the clippers. Everything happens quickly. You feel the clippers make a nick in your hair, just above your ear. The barber lets out a breath. Damnit, he says. I’ll have to fix that. You can’t see. You’re still facing away from the mirror. Cowboy’s got his arm around his boy’s neck, whispering to him, but the boy seems inconsolable. He sobs intermittently.
Goddamnit, the barber says. He’s made another mistake.
Cowboy gathers up his son, finally. It’s not too late for Little Man. The crying boy can still go home to his mother. Looks like we’re not gonna make it through this, he says and moves toward the door with his son. He holds Little Man’s hat. The boy is glued to his father’s leg. No chance he shows his face. We’re sorry about your business, Cowboy says. He unlocks the door, and the two disappear past the damaged storefront and into the red glare. The door swings shut.
Let them go, the barber says. Cut my losses. He brings out the clippers again, but stops. Listen, the haircut’s not too good. I got the jitters, I guess. Jesus, your mom won’t be so happy. Sons of bitches. I’ve got one hell of a mess.
The barber stands behind you, his fingers at your temples. You’re facing away, waiting. You have the upper hand here. How should you play it? You can further punish the barber. It dawns on you that Alex has ratted out his neighbor. The old bigot, of course he did. Now the neighbors will be at war until the end. Who knows how the end will look, except ugly. You can get up out of the chair, walk out the door after the cowboys and toward your own people.
Instead you relent. It’s OK, Alex. I’m used to a nick here and there. You tell him the story of how your old man used to cut your hair, with just the clippers. He would set you down on the toilet seat and drape an apron over your neck. Your mother always told him not to go too high, but he said a boy needed a crewcut. Your dad won that argument every time. You were thirteen and he was still going high and tight.
Your dad a soldier? the barber asks.
He was a soldier. Killed in Action. I grew my hair out when he went overseas. Of course, he never had a chance to see.
Jesus, I’m sorry to hear that, the barber says. Which theater?
First Gulf War. He could have retired in a year, but he got blown to pieces.
Send an angel to sustain us, Alex says, and together you have a moment of silence.
You know I botched this, he says. I’ll have to go all the way up.
You’re the barber, you say. Do what needs to be done.
Alex pushes your head forward. You close your eyes and feel the clippers dig in. When it’s over, the buzzing in your ears continues, only softer. From somewhere, from the other room, you hear the agitated chattering of women’s voices.
Alex spins the chair back around so you’re facing the mirror again. Did we get her? he asks.
You open your eyes. In the mirror the whiteness of your own scalp surprises you. You no longer resemble the man behind you holding the clippers. Now you’re like the boy in the ad for the high and tight, just another in a long line of crew-cut boys.
Strings
Harry Lutz, auto dealer, home in Mount Horeb visiting his aged and ailing father, was shopping for soap-on-a-rope. The clerk at this, his third stop, seemed to mock his search. He would find no such item in the summertime. Soap-on-a-rope was a Christmastime gift.
Though it was none of the clerk’s business, Harry explained that the gift was for his father, who had been in a terrible accident. Early one morning, after his daily jog, Harry’s dad was standing at his mailbox checking the newspaper headlines when a hit-and-run driver plowed him down. He was badly broken and ruptured. Now, after six months, he was home from the hospital, and he could finally bathe himself. But, even with the shower seat, the soap gave him troubles. His father’s fine motor skills had deteriorated, and his shattered femur prevented him from bending to retrieve the bar soap when dropped. The slippery soap lay there by the drain and mocked him. His father cursed the goddamn soap, and then Harry or his mother would have to go and pick it up. But his father couldn’t hold the soap. It just kept squirting from his hands.
The clerk said he was sorry to hear about the accident. Liquid soap, in many colorful varieties, could be found in aisle 10.
Perhaps soap-on-a-rope was a lame idea, but Harry, who hadn’t visited all throughout his father’s squalid convalescence, was eager now to make a familial contribution before heading back west to Denver. He had spent most of his week-long visit home to Mount Horeb at the faltering freeway outlets, shopping, buying things he thought his parents could use. Soap-on-a-rope was a beautiful idea, his mother had said, praising Harry for his thoughtfulness.
When Harry stepped empty-handed from the drug store and into the sunlight, a new shopping opportunity presented itself. Next door to the drugstore was a runners’ store, the Fast Foot. A big foot with an angelic wing sprouting from the heel was emblazoned on the glass door. Something about the winged foot made Harry feel as if he had been here before. These look-al
ike strip malls! He hadn’t even noticed the Fast Foot when he entered the drugstore. Yet here it was, bigger than life. He went into the store now, to buy his dad new running shoes.
Here was a gift that might bolster his father’s spirits, or here was a gift that might depress him further: running shoes for a man who couldn’t walk. Harry’s father had always been a runner, who knows why. He spent hours upon hours running around the country blocks outside Mount Horeb, running away from home one direction, running back toward home from the other. Mount Horeb was ironically named, Harry thought. It was a comparatively flat place with no mountains to prop it up. Harry himself had no such patience for running or the Wisconsin countryside. He was his mother’s boy, and when he was a child, he and his mother often watched comfortably from the kitchen window while his father came galloping down the gravel road in all kinds of weather. Now, Harry thought nostalgically about his father’s running, and he hated to think that the old man couldn’t do it anymore.
Harry took the chance and bought some expensive running shoes for his dad. He bought a running shirt too, just to be safe. Maybe his father could put the shoes on and appreciate their cushion and traction and think once more about all the running he had done in the old days. Such thoughts might make Harry’s dad happy, as they made Harry happy now.
Harry left the Fast Foot with a big white bag in his arms. Back out in the sun, he noticed the vastness of the parking lot, with just a few cars crowded into the close-in spots. Nothing unsettled Harry Lutz like an empty parking lot. The adjacent building had been a large department store, but it was all boarded up now. The parking lot, with its hundreds of empty spots, and the boarded-up building, reminded Harry of a cemetery. It would be all right, though. A new big-box store was going in across the road, and soon all the cars could park there. This was a good place for a shoe store, anyway. The blacktop stretched out before Harry like an asphalt playground.