Hairstyles of the Damned

by Joe Meno

  After the funeral service, we drove in the procession to the cemetery in Larry with the superbad acne’s blue Celica station wagon, the one with the back window that had been replaced with a transparent piece of plastic. There were only two good things about the Celica, the first being that it belonged to Larry with the superbad acne. Apparently, he had worked all summer at the same place Mike did, DiBartola’s Pizza, saving up for it. Larry with the superbad acne had to endure a forehead full of his now trademark zenith zits. He had missed his chance to score with Carolyn Stieber who, because of a birthmark above her right eye which she thought was unforgivable but which I thought was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, made her the easiest of Catholic school girls. Worse than all that, Larry with the superbad acne had to listen to his boss, who was in a KISS cover band, describe all the women he nailed with interesting details like, “She could suck the chrome off a bumper,” over and over again, just so he could own his own car. The second good thing about the wagon: It had a working cassette player. Larry with the superbad acne slid in a mix-tape and the soft, sad dirge of “Fade to Black” by Metallica clicked on. No one said anything. It was like the soundtrack to your worst day on earth, and after seeing Erin crying like that, the song made you feel very awful, Metallica or not. Larry fast-forwarded the tape, then stopped, and a song came on, just like that.

  “I got something to say!” Dun-Dun! “I killed your baby today!”Dun-Dun! “It doesn’t matter much to me as long as it’s dead!”

  It was “Last Caress,” a Misfits cover, a song I recognized from Gretchen playing the hell out of it, and it was very upbeat and even hopeful-sounding in some ways.

  “Sweet lovely death, well, I’m waiting for your breath, one sweet death, one last caress.”

  In that moment, as Larry pulled the Celica in line with the rest of the automobiles, which were slowly forming a kind of motorcade, a terrible thought came over me:

  I am still alive. I am still alive. Mike Madden, my good friend, bad haircut and all, is still alive. And Larry with the superbad acne, with this superbad acne and crappy car, and even this kid Eddie. We are all still alive.

  One of the most tremendous feelings of joy swept over me, down my neck and hands and fingers, and my heart wanted to cry out, We are the picture of youth! We have triumphed over this thing death!You are gone and you were brave and good and better than us in almost every way, but somehow, somehow we have found a secret passage! It is not the end! Dorie will not break my heart because we have found a way! We are still alive and the world is alive and we should all be singing!

  At that moment, the Celica pulled into the cemetery, and through the clanging of its severe metal gates, the terrible truth issued its response: The world is one mad graveyard, in all kinds of fucked-up ways. But you are still alive.

  And that, that was how I felt for about a week or so after Dorie broke up with me.

  twenty-one

  OK, out of nowhere I decided to go by Gretchen’s. I was feeling bad off and on—mostly bad all the time, I guess—and Mike was busy with Erin McDougal and she was kind of high-strung after her dad died and everything, where Mike had to watch everything he fucking said, and, well, I, I was feeling lonely again and so I went by Gretchen’s house and saw the superbad Ford Escort sitting out front, and said to myself, What the fuck, and just went up and rang the doorbell.

  Mr. D. answered and beamed at me, patting my shoulder and said, “Good god, man, where have you been?” and I nodded and laughed and he was wearing his Kiss the Cook apron and asked if I wanted to have a beer, and I said, “No, I’m cool,” and he winked at me and pointed up the stairs, and I walked up there slowly, listening to the Descendents’ “Christmas Vacation,” which Gretchen had blaring, and when I knocked on her door no one answered, so I just walked in.

  So Gretchen was lying in bed on her stomach, facing the wall, and she had her stereo going at full blast so I decided to sneak up on her and shout, “Mission command to patrol? Over?” Gretchen shot out of bed, hitting me with one of her school books as she cussed and caught her breath.

  “Jesus Christ, Brian, you don’t just walk in my room like that.

  Fuck, you’re lucky I didn’t kick you in the nuts. I thought you were some kind of teen-molesting pervert or something.”

  “Sorry. Sorry. I knocked, you know,” I said, still laughing. “I, you know, haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “I’ve been busy,” Gretchen said, going back to her homework. Her hair was now kind of whitish-blond, I mean, most of the pink had washed out.

  “Yeah, me too. I’ve been kind of busy, I guess,” I said, looking down at my feet nervously. “Well, I just came by to see how you were doing.”

  “Like I said, I’ve been busy,” she said, kind of mean.

  “Yeah, well, that’s cool. How’s Tony?” I asked, kind of looking down at my feet.

  “Fine, I guess,” she said.

  “Are you still, you know, seeing him?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” she said. “When he bothers to call me.”

  “Sure. OK. Well, yeah, well, that’s it. I was just, you know, saying hi.”

  “OK,” she said sarcastically. “Hi.”

  “OK.”

  I stopped at the door and turned, then smiled. Making a V with the first two fingers of my hand, I brought them up to my face like a mask and smiled. “All hail Planet Nav-o-nod!” I said.

  “What the fuck was that?” she asked.

  “You know, when we were in junior high: Planet Nav-o-nod and all.”

  “Right.” Gretchen did the same hand gesture and smiled back. “Hail Planet Nav-o-nod,” she said.

  I started walking out the door, stopped, and said:

  “Hey, Gretchen, are you doing anything right now?”

  “My fucking homework,” she said, sighing.

  “Oh.” I stood there a moment more and didn’t say anything.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I dunno,” I said. “Feel like taking a ride?” She looked up and for some reason I felt like I was going to cry, and I thought, If she says fuck off, I’ll never talk to her again, this will be it, because then she is not and was not really ever my friend, and she kind of smiled at me sadly and said:

  “I heard that Dorie girl dumped you.” And I said:

  “Yeah. She did.”

  “OK,” she said, “just let me get dressed,” and I went into the hall and closed the door, feeling like she had just saved me from something, maybe.

  twenty-two

  OK, I had decided finally, fuck it, I will cut my hair myself.

  I was down in Mike’s basement waiting for Dorie to come by and pick up her fucking Iron Maiden T-shirt, and I just decided, Fuck it, why am I sitting around like a fool? and so I got out the clippers I had bought, took off the plastic quarter-inch guard, plugged them in, and turned them on. I sat in front of a weird poster/mirror/painting Mike had won at a carnival which depicted Randy Rhoads, Ozzy’s old guitarist, now passed on, in the middle of a blazing solo, his polka-dot flying-V guitar sizzling with fire and electricity. I placed the clippers beside my head and was just about to begin when Dorie came in, kind of pounding down the stairs. She looked around and said, “Where’s Mike?” and I pointed toward the small wood-paneled bedroom where he was on the phone, doing his daily after-school kissy-face routine with Erin McDougal.

  Dorie looked at me, squinted, and said, “Did you bring it?” I nodded, putting down the clippers, lifting the T-shirt out of my backpack, and holding it out to her. My mom had washed it and folded it, thinking it was mine, and somehow it still smelled exactly like Dorie. I handed it to her and she took it and said:

  “Thanks for washing it.”

  “No problem. My mom did it.”

  “Are you OK with everything?” she asked.

  “Am I OK with everything?” I whispered. “No. What do you think? Am I OK with everything?” I mumbled again to myself.

  “It’s not easy for me either,” she
said, looking down at her feet. She was so tall and so pretty and her bangs perfectly framed her face.

  “So forget it,” I said. “Let’s say we’re still going out.”

  Dorie just stood there, kind of half-smiling, then shook her head.

  “We were never going out. I was supposed to be going out with him.”

  “What, is he waiting for you outside?” I asked.

  “No, he’s picking me up.”

  “When?”

  “I dunno, ten minutes.”

  “Why ten minutes?” I asked.

  “Because that’s how long I told him.”

  “But why did you tell your boyfriend ten minutes if you live next door?”

  “I don’t understand,” Dorie said.

  “Why did you say ten minutes if you were just coming to pick up the stupid shirt?” I asked.

  “I dunno,” she said. “I just did.”

  “It doesn’t take ten minutes to pick up a shirt, does it?”

  “I dunno,” she said, starting to cry maybe.

  “So why did you say ten minutes?”

  “I wanted to talk to you and make sure you were OK.”

  “You wanted to make sure I was OK? That doesn’t take ten minutes.”

  “Well, that was it. I wanted to make sure we were still friends,” she said.

  “Oh, we’re still friends,” I said smartly.

  “Why are you trying to make this hard on me?” she asked.

  “Why are you trying to make this hard on me?” I said, starting to cry a little too.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she said. “Really. I like you and I like Ken and he’s been my boyfriend for like a year and so I think I should be with him.”

  “Great,” I said. “Great for Ken.”

  “Great,” she said, wiping her eyes.

  “So why did you tell him ten minutes?” I asked once more.

  “Why do you keep asking that?”

  “Because I think you wanted to come here and not go with him.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think you want to be with him. You want to be with me, but you’re chicken.”

  “I have to go,” she said and turned, starting up the stairs.

  “Dorie, wait,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Just wait.”

  “Why?”

  “Please,” I said, and she looked at me and shook her head and ran on up. I just stood there for a while, staring at the spot where she had been on the stairs, and all I felt like doing was crying, and then Mike came and put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Sorry, man,” staring at the same spot as me.

  “Mike,” I said, turning to him, “I need you to do something for me.”

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure, man, what do you want?”

  “I need you to help me put lines in my hair.”

  “What? Dude, that’s gonna be dumb.”

  “Seriously,” I said. “I need you to cut lines in my hair.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because that’s what friends do, Mike.”

  “It’s going to look stupid,” he said.

  “I don’t care.”

  “I don’t care either,” he said. “I’ll fucking try.”

  I went over to the pool table and handed him the clippers and took a seat in a metal folding chair.

  And then he did it all in like five minutes, right there in his basement, with my hair on the floor by the two mismatched sofas, and me almost crying for some reason, and it looked bad-ass when he was done with it: three straight lines across, above my ears on each side. I stared in the hand mirror Mike had stolen from his mom and I said, “If you want, I’ll give you a couple of bucks.” And he said, “Just make sure you remember I did this for you the next time I need to borrow some money.” And I said, “I won’t forget it, man,” and I looked in the mirror again and one of the lines was kind of crooked on the left side but that was OK with me, maybe.

  At school the next day, people freaked out. I went to my first class, Religion, where Bro. Dorbus refused to look at me, and by my second class, Bro. Hanlan, my Chemistry teacher, just frowned, looking at my hair and shaking his head and said, “I don’t know if that hair is appropriate personal appearance,” and I said, “But it’s short,” and he said, “That might not be the point,” and right after second period I was called down to Mr. Gregor, the soft-hearted guidance counselor with a black comb-over and mustache who explained everything in terms of some metaphorical football game I could never follow. He looked at me and then asked, “Is everything OK with the home team?”

  “Everything’s swell,” I said, even though, like I said, my mom and dad hadn’t slept together in the same bed in months. “Everything’s swell, man,” I repeated. Mr. Gregor nodded, made some notes in my file, and let me go. When I strode out of the counselor’s office, smiling, the fluorescent hallway lights bounced radiation off my head in the spots where the narrow lines were cut bare. Some freshman stared at me, kind of laughing, and I shot him a dirty look and he seemed pretty scared. I was on my way to my third class when Bro. Cardy, the villainous Dean of Discipline, stopped me in the hallway. He was wearing his standard black ordained-brother uniform with the small white collar, his white hair short and cropped in a military ’do, and his two meaty arms were folded in front of his chest as he regarded me, shaking his head.

  “Nope, no sir,” he said, eyeballing me. “That hair is not gonna pass.”

  “But it’s short, Bro’,” I said.

  “It looks like it might be gang-related,” he said.

  “It’s not gang-related. It’s like the football player, Brian Bosworth.”

  “Football season has been over for months.”

  “But I just got this haircut now,” I said.

  “Sorry, young man. You can either get rid of those lines somehow or I can shave your entire head in my office myself, right now.”

  I stared at this dick, this self-righteous authority figure with his big arms crossed in front of my face, and thought of how bad I had wanted that fucking haircut, how I thought it would change me, save everything, but how I had ended up losing Dorie to some guy who already had her anyway, how I hadn’t even had the haircut for one fucking day and already there was trouble, because a haircut wasn’t ever going to save me or make me someone I wasn’t, and besides that, I was feeling low and awful already, so when he said, “Sorry, young man. You can either get rid of those lines somehow or I can shave your entire head in my office myself, right now,” I just nodded and said:

  “Let’s go shave it then,” and that’s what happened to all my hair. Just like that. All of it gone. Just like that.

  twenty-three

  In the end, we opted to do a skit for our Final History Project, because Mike thought it was the best way to disguise that we didn’t do any real research or anything. It went like this: Mike was the detective telling the class about historical facts, reading from his poorly written yellow note cards in his slightly stoned voice, “So this is a skit about not belonging, right. It, um, is meant to show you how terrified our nation was of itself, you know, and like how distrustful, and also, how it was like a turning point, you know? Like people not trusting other people, some people feeling like not part of other people. How like it was like our nation growing up, you know, facing some real bad things, but then like that is part of it, you know, bad things and being alive is part of like being in America, maybe, which people didn’t really think about much. So it was like America learning there is bad things out there and that is part of America and like still trying to be like happy and trustful anyway. OK. Right. So the year is 1962, Albert DeSalvo works at a rubber press during the day; at night he tracks his quarry all over the city of Boston.”

  So I was the Boston Strangler and I had a stocking cap on because he had one on in the book Dorie got me, and Ms. Aiken—the lovely Ms. Aiken, the o
nly one who believed in us in the whole world, maybe, which was probably a mistake—well, she was the victim, and she was sitting at the head of class, filing her nails and pretending to chew gum and doing whatever victims do before they get strangled, and right there I decided to do something different. Instead of going to strangle Ms. Aiken, who was looking bored, and lovely, man, really lovely, well, I crept up the side of the classroom and strangled this twerp, Frankie Manning, and the kid started screaming, but I covered his mouth and Mike saw what I was doing and shouted, “See! The Boston Strangler has struck! No one can tell where he will commit his evil deeds next!” and he ran beside Frankie and said, “Another victim of this unpredictable killer who is impossible to predict!” and by then I had strangled Blaine Reed, who, because he was a theater fag, got the drift and fell out of his seat, playing dead, and Ms. Aiken started shouting, “OK, guys, that’s enough, that’s enough,” but I didn’t stop until I had my hands around Ms. Aiken’s neck, and it was long and soft, and I thought I could feel her breathing, oh God, I could actually feel her breathing, and there, there were two brown freckles popping out of the top of her shirt and I wanted to try and kiss her more than anything in the world, and she could tell, probably, because she looked up at me and blinked, but like a high school girl, with all her eyelashes—which was something she never did, because if she was one thing, it was classy—and so I decided not to murder her, and thought, Fuck it, and instead, well, I just ran out of the room and took off the stocking cap and sprinted with my bare head down the hallway, and then I hung out in the cafeteria the rest of the day and didn’t get busted because the lunch ladies there knew I was cool.

  the album that saved my life

  may 1991

  “Shoplifters of the world, unite and take over …”

  —“Shoplifters of the World”