The Haircut  

Face it, the guy looked like the pimp in Taxi Driver, skinny, pimply, with long dark greasy hair down to his shoulders and lurid tattoos all up and down his arms. Vivid red and yellow dragons. Naked women. I took it all in. Tanktop T-shirt and ropy-veined biceps like an undernourished junkie. A bright red headband across his forehead like an Apache brave. He was the manager of the hairstyling salon to which I had taken my three-year old daughter that Saturday for a haircut. My wife had to work that day and asked me to do it for her; Ellen's bangs were dripping into her eyes, and the hair in back was starting to tangle after it was washed at night.

But I was stunned and even horrified by what I found here. Amy did say the name of the establishment was "Plenum," didn't she? Plenum! What did that have to do with cutting hair? There was a Robotron video game in one corner of the reception area, along with a frayed sofa and the kind of chrome and linoleum chairs you find in a cheap luncheonette. Three-ring binders filled with models in different hairstyles littered a table like encyclopedias in the reference room at the public library. The reception area stank of cigarette smoke. I approached the pimp.

"Excuse me. I think my daughter has an appointment with Debbie at eleven?"

He flipped through an appointment book. His fingernails were dirty. "Men
-- uh, Men --?"
"Mendelssohn."
"Yeah. Whyncha take a seat? She'll be right with you. Mendelssohn. What kinda name is that?"

But I'd already turned away and was explaining to Ellen that we'd have to wait a few minutes before Debbie could see her, and Ellen had already made a beeline for Robotron.

"Hey, I haven't got any change, Sweetie," I called after her.

"You need change? I can get you change." But I waved my hand and shook my head. Cochise chuckled and gave me the high sign, and all at once I could see why he might be managing the place. He had the right personality. The urbane glibness of an ersatz talkshow host. Regal, like a pimp in his harem; the neighborhood girls must have flocked to him for his cosmopolitan insights into coiffures, his sensitivity for providing them with the best possible image -- high school brides, waitresses, dime store clerks, unwed mothers, they all must have regarded Cochise as the final arbiter of good taste, an authority on style and class. He would make them into Modern Women with a wave of his magic wand.

Ellen and I took a seat on the couch, and I plucked a three-month old issue of People from the coffee table and began to flip through the pages. A couple of heavy young women came into the shop then, and Cochise greeted them by name. They had so much makeup caked on their faces you'd think they were in a stage production. Playing clowns, no less.

"Jolene! Tina! How are ya?" He sounded enthusiastic, and the girls fairly gushed when he opened his arms to embrace them. He kissed them both on the mouth. "How have you been? I haven't seen you in...." The calculation was too much for him, and besides, Jolene had already erupted with the news.

"Tina's pregnant, Sonny!"
"You are!" He took Tina in his arms again and kissed her. She blushed like a Homecoming Queen.

Sonny, I thought. Classic. Amy had complained about this character, but I hadn't realized how bad it was. A friend had recommended Debbie as a woman who did well with children, but after the first visit to Plenum, Amy had come back disturbed by what she had seen and speculated on the possibility of inviting Debbie over to do Ellen's hair at home. I thought she was just over-reacting, though, and I dissuaded her from doing it; it could get Debbie in trouble with her boss, I warned. Amy grumbled but took Ellen back a second time. Again she had come back complaining, and I wondered now if this were her revenge. A Reality lesson. See for yourself if you don't believe me, pal.

Jolene and Tina had taken seats and were flipping through the hairstyle binders. A couple of teenage boys had come in and were playing Robotron. High tech noises that I took to be simulated rocketfire emanated from speakers inside the machine. Ffeww. Ffeww. The telephone receiver cradled on his shoulder, Sonny was lighting a cigarette.

"Yeah, babe. Sure, babe," he was saying, jotting something down in the appointment book. "See you then, babe. Love ya." What kind of dream world did he live in? Pathetic.

Debbie came around then from the parlor in back where the hairdressing stations were located. She was a shy, pretty young woman, and she smiled at Ellen.

"Come on back with me, honey," she said, and Ellen got up from her chair, smiling all over. She'd been a little sullen when I denied Robotron to her, but she was happy now. She followed Debbie back behind the reception desk to Debbie's workstation, complete with mirrors and basins and brushes and scissors and hairblowers.

"Chick must be thrilled," Sonny called over to Tina. She looked up from the binder over which she was bent, a cigarette pinched between her fingers, smoke dribbling from her nose and mouth.

"Yeah, but his girlfriend ain't!"

They all laughed, and I found myself wondering if Joe, the barber I went to, would cut my daughter's hair. Why not? Joe's a fat Greek guy with an unpretentious place in an apartment complex downtown. I go there every other month to get my hair cut. I'm bald on top, and I resent the high prices the so-called unisex salons charge. Joe charges four bucks, and even though I'm a minimal piece of work, he does all the extras -- clips the eyebrows and nostrils, shaves behind the ears, puts stinkum and talc on, actually runs a comb across my scalp.

Joe's is a three-chair storefront affair with a modest peppermint barberpole spiralling out front. He has one other guy working for him, Efthemios. They've been together for years. They're almost like a comedy team; Joe's the straight man. Old issues of Life, Time and Sports Illustrated festoon a rack by the chairs. An oscillating fan moves hypnotically in one corner, winter and summer, and his radio is always tuned to a golden oldies station. Framed autographed pictures of the famous men whose hair he has cut decorate the walls, local luminaries ranging from politicians to celebrities to influential businessmen. Johnny Unitas. Milton Eisenhower. Jack Moseley. Brooks Robinson. A class barber.

"Hey, Sonny. Is it true you can't get a decent permanent when you're pregnant?" Tina took a deep drag on her cigarette.

"It won't hurt the baby or nothin', but yeah. Something about all the hormones and shit. It won't hold."

"Shit. I guess there goes that idea." Tina threw the binder she was looking at down on the table in disgust and sucked back another deep drag. I could tell she liked to pretend she was a tough broad, but look at her twice and she'd collapse. She noticed me looking at her and almost croaked:

"Mind if I smoke?"

I shrugged. "Go ahead."

"Who's Chick goin' with now?" Sonny asked. His voice was smooth as butter, as if he really cared.

"Some bitch from Belair."

Jolene let out a high, whinnying laugh. "She's tryin' to get Chick to divorce Tina so she can get his welfare check."

"Shit, the bitch got really pissed when she heard I was knocked up." Sonny whistled softly, shaking his head and smiling. "You do get into trouble, girl."

"Don't she?"

A new girl came in through the door then. Frosted blond hair, glossy lipstick, white T-shirt, no bra.

"Deanie!" Sonny held out his arms, went through the same kissy greeting routine he had with Jolene and Tina. I craned my neck to look at Ellen and Debbie. Ellen's hair was wet -- Debbie had misted it with water from a plastic spray bottle -- and Debbie was holding a mirror in front of her and talking softly to her. Ellen's red cheeks dimpled with a smile of self-conscious delight. A boy came into the shop and put a quarter down on Robotron, reserving a game when the ones playing now were finished. Ack!..Ack!..Ack! The machine made some frantic noises, and all three boys marvelled at the score one of them had just made. I turned back to my magazine.

A couple minutes later the front door flew back and a skinny guy in combat boots strode in like the marshall in a television western. He looked like he hadn't shaved in three or four days. He had that mean hillbilly look on his face that indicates a bad temper.

"Chick!" Tina squealed. As if by instinct she reached into her purse for her pack of cigarettes. Marlboro Lights. She shook one out and removed a lighter from the purse.

"Hey! You've got my Zippo!" Chick sounded as if he had just been looking for an opening to start criticizing and carping.

"Aw, man!" Tina whined, scared back to her subservient role. A dog with its tail between its legs. "This is my lighter, Chick. You know it is."

"The hell it is! You God damn bitch! You're always stealing my stuff!"

"Chick! It's hers. Really," Jolene said, trying to placate him. "I seen her with it last week. Same lighter. Really."

"Give it here. Lemme have it." Chick extended his hand imperiously.

"Aw, come on, Chick," Tina whined, her voice getting smaller and smaller as her self-image shrank to invisibility under the intimidation.

"Hey, come on, you guys." Sonny put a whimsical spin on his admonition. A sort of kiss-and-make-up proposition implicit in his tone.

"Fuck you, Sonny. You stay out of this."

"Come on, Chick. Shit." Jolene continued to push her let's-be-reasonable perspective.

Tina did not show any sign of giving the lighter to Chick. This was where she drew the line, her show of defiance. Otherwise, her self-esteem would simply collapse. Which was what Chick had in mind. Put her in her place. He stood there another few seconds with his hand extended. Nobody moved. Even the kids at the video game had stopped playing. Afraid he was about to look foolish, Chick made his dramatic gesture. He took two steps forward and grabbed at Tina's wrist; he'd take the damn thing by force. Tina jerked her arm away, keeping the symbol of her self-respect out of Chick's reach. Chick grabbed for the lighter again, and in lunging at her, he tripped over his massive boots and fell on top of her. His knee jabbed her in the abdomen, the full force of his weight behind it, and they tumbled to the floor. Chick had Tina pinned beneath his knee like a piece of meat on a skewer. Tina let out a groan that sounded like it came from her bowels, and Jolene screamed.

Chick got to his feet. He suddenly looked scared. Pure fear wiped away the tough guy pose, and there he was, just a dirty ragamuffin punk trying to grow a beard.

"Oh shit. Oh fuck." His voice had the desperate quality of a hunted animal. He looked wildly around and then headed for the door.

Sonny vaulted over the counter past Deanie and grabbed Chick. He pinned him to the floor. He started issuing orders. "Jolene, go get a damp cloth and wipe Tina's face. Deanie, you go to the bathroom and get the smelling salts out of the medicine cabinet." He turned to me. "You, Mendelberry. You dial 911 and tell them there's a girl here who might be having a miscarriage. Tell them to send an ambulance down to Plenum right away." All at once I felt a great respect for the guy. I truly admired the way he tried to get things under control, the sense of responsibility that motivated him. I walked over to the telephone, glancing over my shoulder once to see him sitting astride Chick's back, his knees pressed on Chick's squirming shoulders.

Still, I thought, next time we'll invite Debbie over to our place. Or I'll take Ellen to Joe's.

Charles Rammelkamp is an adjunct English professor at Essex Community College. His work has appeared in Chiron Review, Comstock Review, The Evansville Review, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Happy, Lynx Eye, Pangolin Papers, Pearl, Princeton Arts Review, and others. Two chapbooks, i don't think god's that cruel, and Go to Hell, are available from March Street Press. A short story collection, A Better Tomorrow, will soon be published by PublishAmerica.

Contact Charles Rammelkamp at: Charles.Rammelkamp@ssa.gov

December 6, 2001
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