Assimilation

by James Stryker

  “I meant they’ll deny you privileges like selling you a gun, approving a credit card, or moving to Taiwan. Anyone will cut your hair. They won’t ask for your ID. Now if you wanted a tattoo, that’s something we’d have to go underground for.”

  “I just want my hair cut. And I know I can have it cut, that no one could stop me. It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I need someone to, or a place where they won’t … Do you know of someone who will cut it not like a woman?”

  “You mean will they cut it like a sheep? I’m not sure that’d be right for the shape of your face.”

  “Will they cut it like a man?”

  “It’s business, Andrew. Pay them, and they’ll do whatever you want.” Oz noticed how he smiled when his name was used, and it was so much brighter when not on a delay from the medication.

  But as quick as the smile was to appear, it was also fast to fade. “I worry, they’ll take one look at me and they’ll cut it short, but not like a man’s haircut.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I pay more attention to these things, I realize.” He sighed. “But there’s a huge difference between short hair for a woman and for a man. And I don’t want to look like Natalie with some pixie cut or short in front and long in back. I’m not worried that they’ll refuse me service, only that they’ll botch it.”

  “In which case, you get it cut shorter by someone else.”

  “And if they fuck it up too?”

  “Then we’ll shave you bald and I’ll try to not cut your ear off. Of course, there are no guarantees, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “I want it done right. So will you come with me?”

  “Do you need me to hold your hand? It doesn’t hurt to have your hair cut. It’s a bunch of dead cells.”

  But he wanted to go.

  “To help me decide what to have done. To support me.”

  “You ask the gay man to help with your makeover? How stereotypical is that?”

  “No, I’m asking my friend because I trust him. I’m willing to admit this is scary for me.” Andrew put his hand on Oz’s knee. “You make me feel safe.”

  His mouth went dry, and it took him some seconds to collect himself.

  “Well, you might have horrible taste.” He mustered a chuckle. “If you go alone, you might get a crew cut. Not that it matters, but does Robert know?”

  “No. I’m my own master, and I’ll do what I want.” Andrew withdrew his hand and folded his arms. “If you’d told me that no one would cut it, I’d have done it myself. I hate it.”

  “It’s not that bad.” Oz recognized why Andrew wanted the hair gone, but if he was going for a more masculine look, there were other areas he would’ve recommended starting with. Was it his place to point them out though? Probably not. Only if the opportunity presented itself.

  “But it’s not what I see in my head. When I think about what I’d look like if you turned me inside out and saw who I really am.”

  It was an idea Oz had never considered, but he supposed it made sense. People didn’t spend their entire lives in front of mirrors. Somewhere in the mind existed a mental image of how one looked. He looked how he thought he should.

  “What does the real you look like?”

  Andrew averted his eyes, swallowed, and then looked at Oz. “That’s not something I want to talk about. It’s sufficient to say I don’t have long hair. I want it cut off. Today.”

  Oz had more than a mild curiosity about what Andrew wanted to see in those mirrors he covered. But he decided to drop the subject.

  “And I don’t care what Robert might say. If he shits his pants when he sees it, he can clean it himself.”

  Oz remembered his conversation with Santino, and that cautionary voice in his ear:

  “Think about what he could do to her.”

  But it was hair. Hair grew back. How much of a risk could it be? He couldn’t see Robert having a conniption about a haircut. He didn’t know Robert, but really? A haircut?

  “Let’s get going then.” Oz bounded up from his chair and walked to the door. Before opening it he removed his white coat, sliding each arm out in a swift motion. As he hung it on the wall hook, he turned back. Their eyes met, and his shoulders tingled.

  “What? Do I have something on me?” He coasted a hand through his hair, pushing the other in his pocket.

  Chapter 28

  Andrew had woken with the hair, hating it from the beginning. It wasn’t his hair, or Natalie’s. It was CryoLife grown hair, and having it chopped off was far from a loss. What’d kept him from going alone was precisely what he’d told Oz – he’d been afraid of what a stylist would do. If he pointed to a picture of a man’s cut, he’d walk out looking like a butch lesbian. In many ways, short women’s styles were worse than the long hair. One ill-placed snip of the scissors, and he could appear to be one of those perky athletic women so assertive in their femininity they didn’t need a swath of hair.

  And there were also the mirrors. Salons were rooms of mirrors he couldn’t cover. Every reflection cast back the things he hated about himself. He’d walked in behind Oz, shaking and with his eyes to the floor. The tiles weren’t miniature drip paintings, just a creamy tan—

  “Patrice, you lazy ass whore!”

  “Oz, you filthy motherfucker!”

  A sandwich bag transfer. Did Oz use actual money for anything?

  “This is my friend, Andrew. Take good care of him. He’s tired of looking like a dirty hippie.”

  Andrew added the emphasis in his head. It sounded fantastic. Much better than those other—

  Oz had placed his hands on his shoulders and gave him a shove forward. He stumbled and looked up. A large woman in a blue apron was gave him a sly grin.

  “Friend, eh?”

  “If he were more than a friend, I’d have grabbed his ass, not his shoulders.” Oz walked past both of them and slumped into a barber chair. He spun in it a handful of times before stopping the motion with the chair facing the mirror. In that position, he attempted to tilt the chair back. “Your chairs aren’t adjustable enough, and they’re too damn close to the counter for me to put my feet up. How do you expect anyone to relax?”

  “This isn’t a lounge. It’s a business.” She turned to Andrew, and her smile drooped. “I don’t mean to offend you, honey, but how old are you?”

  “I don’t rape children, Patrice.”

  Settle down. This isn’t a bad thing. She didn’t ask if you were a man. She sees a male. That’s how Oz has been referring to you. You don’t look twenty-eight, but that’s okay. As long as she sees a man, who cares how old you look?

  “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to your friend. And don’t you dare light that cigarette. I have customers allergic to—”

  “Then get a move on. That’s high quality dro I gave you. And what have you given me? An uncomfortable chair and a disturbing view of your ass. Work, woman.”

  Patrice snatched a fistful of curlers from the top of a rolling trolley and threw them at him.

  It’d be nice to be like this. To be confident and have close friends that you could pick on and talk trash with.

  “Have a seat over here.” She’d walked behind the chair next to Oz and beckoned to Andrew. “What are you thinking you’d like?”

  The question he’d been dreading. What to say? “A man’s haircut?” Would she look at him funny? He could just say “a haircut,” but there was that nagging feeling that he should specify—

  “He wants it short, like your husband’s—”

  “Here’s a book for you to look through some pictures—”

  “God, Patrice. Do you keep picture books of it? I thought this was a business, not a—”

  “If you don’t like any of those, I’ve got books of others right—”

  “Seriously? You’ve got a library of dick pics? He’s straight. But you can pass them over here if you—”

  “Will you shut up?” P
atrice snapped. “Let the man talk and put away that cigarette before I throw you out!”

  Andrew looked up from the book she’d set in his lap. Oz said nothing, but smiled as he removed his cigarette. In his pattern-seeing, problem-solving way, had he calculated antagonizing his friend to elicit this response?

  “Let the man talk.” How wonderful to be rightly acknowledged. Did you provoke her on purpose because you knew it’d be meaningful to me?

  Like he’d read his mind, Oz winked at him before resuming a slow spin in his chair.

  “What do you think, hmm? Maybe this one would go well with the shape of your face.” Patrice’s long nail ticked on top a photo, but Andrew didn’t look away from Oz.

  With his head tipped back his bangs fluttered away from his forehead in motion with the chair. Though he’d complained of the discomfort, he looked perfectly at ease. One leg was crossed over the other, and the cigarette he’d been ordered to put away peeped out from the pocket of his blue button-up. His left arm hung loose over the chair’s side, while his right was tucked under his neck. He’d rolled his sleeves over his elbows, as Andrew had sought to do with Robert’s shirt. But on Oz it looked perfect.

  Everything about you is perfect.

  Andrew had been evaluating his options and had arrived at two choices. He could stick it out with Robert and see where things were when the six-month conservatorship expired, or he could tell Robert the truth and remain with to CryoLife for the duration of his sentence. Yes, going back to CryoLife was a risk, but the idea of them killing him seemed somewhat irrational in the light of day. So Oz didn’t know anyone who hadn’t assimilated. That had just been a side comment and it proved nothing. CryoLife was an established corporation, not the fucking mob. They couldn’t just make people disappear.

  But whatever he decided to do, either way, when it came time to strike out on his own, he’d need help. And from the look on Oz’s face at the pharmacy, Andrew knew he’d probably receive any assistance he asked for.

  And perhaps I could reciprocate. I’m more open to loving you than Robert. At least I like to look at you.

  Robert wore slacks and button-ups too, sometimes rolling the sleeves. There was a different energy Oz brought to his style though. The way Robert moved caused a cotton shirt to look like a heavy, canvas material. Oz had a carefree vibrancy that made everything around him seem effortless. Having moved past the jealousy, he was so much easier to be around.

  “Or how about this one? If you want to look older, this might be a good option. Or something similar to this would be low maintenance. You tell me, Andrew.”

  He turned to Patrice. “Whatever you think. Just short, like he said.”

  She picked a rubber band from the trolley and tied it around Andrew’s hair. “My husband used to have long hair actually, until I made him cut it.”

  “She likes most things short. That’s why they’re such a good match,” Oz said.

  “Now I don’t mind long hair, but when I met him it was just this ratted nasty mess. Why I even took a second look at him I have no idea.” The stylist guided her scissors through the ponytail. “But that’s how it is. Love and nonsense. Makes you see past the many, many flaws.”

  “I’m sure he feels the same way about your many, many flaws. Or he would, if he could see past your—”

  Patrice chucked a spray bottle at him. “Next time, I’ll throw the scissors. And not at your chest, either.” With one final cut, Andrew felt a sudden lightness at the back of his head. “There you go, honey. That’ll be the worst of it.”

  Patrice handed the mantle of golden hair to him and he petted it with ginger fingertips. Natalie had spent over an hour styling her hair in the morning – curling then brushing it to loosen the tight tresses into flowing waves. She’d loved it and been proud of it.

  Like growing hair is some accomplishment. I guess maybe for you it was. You didn’​t do much of anything besides look good for Robert. There’s more to me than strands of dead cells.

  Andrew smiled and turned to Oz, holding the band of hair in triumph like a decapitated head.

  “Are you going to keep it?” Oz asked. “Let Robert keen over it?”

  “No.” Andrew pressed the hair into the stylist’s hand. “Donate it, or throw it in the garbage. I don’t care. Get rid of it.”

  “Sure thing. We’re almost done.” Patrice tossed the severed ponytail onto the counter, removing her scissors again. She glanced at Oz. “Who’s Robert? I swear to God, Oz, if some parent comes in screaming at me—”

  “Relax, I told you he’s not a minor.”

  “If I get hassle …” She looked in the mirror, smoothing two sections of hair at Andrew’s temples with her fingertips. “You can take your weed and shove it up your ass.”

  “That’d be an interesting high, I suppose.”

  “Hands free.”

  “And hands not otherwise occupied are free to hold a cigarette. Hint, hint.”

  “If you want to smoke and can’t wait three more goddamn minutes, go do it outside.”

  Andrew watched from the mirror as Oz stopped spinning in the chair and stood. Unlike what he’d anticipated, he didn’t feel any panic at the idea of being left alone in the salon. When Oz looked at him, he smiled to indicate that he was okay.

  “Wants and needs are two different things.” Oz took the cigarette from his pocket and walked to the door.

  “You need a nicotine patch.”

  “I’ll never surrender. Ever.”

  The bell on the door jingled as it closed.

  Patrice picked up a bottle and sprayed a fine mist over Andrew’s hair before continuing to cut. “I take it you’re new to being around him?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re not obnoxious yet.” She grinned. “I’m kidding. He’s a great guy. I don’t know what I’d do without him. Lean your head forward.” Patrice took a pair of clippers from the trolley and turned them on. “The marijuana isn’t for me. My father has liver cancer, and Wifi Kush helps him sleep. Oz doesn’t charge an arm and a leg for it.”

  “You trade him with haircuts?”

  “This is the first time he’s asked for something.”

  “Maybe you really should let him smoke in here then.”

  The stylist wiped a towel over the back of his neck. “See, you’re learning.”

  Learning. Another plus of going the Oz route. It was kind of like spying on the frat house across the street and imagining being among them. If Andrew hung around Oz enough, he could learn to be like him. Oz had taught Andrew how to fire a gun, perhaps he’d teach him how to be confident. Or Andrew could study him closely in order to pull bits and pieces of him to mimic. Like The Natalie Files. Only The Oz Files weren’t as awkward to watch, and the show hadn’t been canceled yet.

  “There you go, honey. What do you think?”

  He refocused on the mirror.

  It wasn’t Natalie.

  It was almost Andrew.

  Almost. If he looked at only the face, ignoring the baggy sweatshirt that the real Andrew would never wear. The curve of his cheek was still rounder than he’d like, and his skin was too smooth, but the hair made a difference.

  True to what he’d hoped, Patrice had cut it in a traditional men’s style. Closer at the back and on the sides, and just a touch longer on top. It was squared in a straight line on either side of his forehead, the edge rounding down his temple.

  “Too long? Too short? Not that much can be done about the latter.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  Andrew could see her off to the side, squeezing a drop of paste onto her fingertips, but he couldn’t take his concentration fully away from the mirror.

  There I am. Halfway. Maybe seventy percent. Closer than I’ve ever been before.

  For the absolute joy of seeing his own reflection instead of a stranger’s, he wanted to cry. But he held it in. He was sure that sobbing over a haircut wasn�
�t something Oz would do.

  Chapter 29

  Outside the building, Andrew shook his head, running his fingers through the short hair. It was incredible. So freeing. Almost better than hearing his name for the first time.

  I have two things. The name and the hair.

  Fuck CryoLife, fuck Robert. He could run a dozen laps around the parking lot.

  “My head feels lighter!”

  “You look like you need to take a piss.” Oz leaned against the side of the car and tipped his head to light another cigarette.

  “It was this noose choking me. The back of my neck feels cold.” The warm breeze felt arctic – as if menthol had been slathered over his skin. Was this similar to the sensation of shaving? Maybe he’d try it.

  “Speaking of the cold.” Oz took a drag and released the smoke in a slow exhale. “Do you know where we live?”

  “Where we live?”

  “Where we are currently. It’s not a trick question – just answer.”

  “53rd Street. Savannah. Georgia. United States. The world. The—”

  “You were good the first few in.” Oz coughed. “And what month is it?”

  “Has the smoking cut off the oxygen to your brain? It’s August, Oz.”

  “Oh, I’m fully aware. But I thought you might not grasp that we live in a southern climate where the average temperature in August easily exceeds ninety degrees. It’s ninety-two today. That kind of heat fries eggs on sidewalks and bakes poodles in their sleep.”

  “Point?”

  Oz took the cigarette from his lips, and made a sweeping gesture. “You look like you’re off to go snow tubing in Finland.”

  Andrew froze. Off in the distance of his mind, the diving board flickered into view.

  “Look, brother, I know why you do it. But you don’t have to.”

  “No, I really do.”

  When he looked at Oz, it was almost like seeing him for the first time. All the jealousy and anger rushed back. He didn’t feel the desire to emulate him, because here Oz was throwing himself in his face again.

  Andrew answered in a low whisper: “I’ll get home on my own.”