sʃʃıɥ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ pǝpɐǝɥ

Today I got my semi annual haircut. I took the metro back to my old neighborhood and hung around a while waiting for my barber to finish with the haircut he was working on. While I waited the three other guys tried to convince me to let them cut my hair. I learned the hard way that my man is my man, and I know better now not to let anyone else touch my hair. The other guys know me, I come in once a year (every 8 months really) and they are always shocked at the length of my hair, and can’t believe “a year” has passed already. It’s manly fun, but what fun.

When I finally took my place in the oversized leather chair, my barber Robert took a phone call. It’s nothing unusual. Robert takes calls, and he’s usually the only person who answers the phone at his barber shop. While he spoke softly in Spanish with someone he wrapped me up in the drape and tucked the paper strip into my collar. While we waited, the Russian man who cuts in the next chair began to slap his hands against his ass and challenged me. “What’s matter with my ass? Come on. Give me a try!” I smiled, everyone laughed, and then I assured him it wasn’t his ass I had a problem with. The Russian redoubled his efforts to slap his own bottom and the other barbers laughed harder.

Robert got off the phone and grabbed ahold of my head. I tried to tell him what I wanted this time, but he said “We’re going to make it nice and clean this time so you look a little better next year when you come back.” He shaved me up nice and rough, and when he was done he handed me the mirror. There I was… my face, my forehead, my hair closely cropped except for a single thin spike of hair sticking up in the front. I was a little startled.

“What do you want to do about this?” asked my barber.

“Kill it” I said with a smile.

“No no!” Called the Russian. “Now you are in Village People!” And he began to slap himself on the back of his slacks again. Everyone was laughing again.

“Kill it”

And with the hasty clip of the scissors the last refuge of my mad professor hair was gone. I smiled, paid my barber, pulled on my sweater and jacket and was out on the street feeling the cool air against my ears for the first time in a long time. It felt good, and I felt handsome again. There’s a strange mixture of vulnerability and clarity that comes with a short hair cut. I like it. I also really like the shaggy thing… So I only approach the subject every now and then.

The salesman at macy’s touched my hand softly, the barista at Starbucks softly touched my knee, two different men cruised me on muni. I felt pretty and clean. Not a bad feeling at all. I retold the story of how I joined the Village People today to a group of friends tonight, and everyone loved my new haircut. A couple of people asked me out. No one asks me out when I have mad professor hair.

The cherry on top of haircut day came later. At about 1:15 am I went out to the store for an ice cream bar and a pack of smokes. As I turned the corner of Webster onto Page, a man in a puffy orange jacket with softly feathered hair and a mustache approached me. I was listening to messages on my phone. As he began to pass me I felt him swerve toward me, and then just as he passed he reached around and slapped me flat on the ass. I felt an old familiar thrill come over me, turned on my heel and said “What’s your story bub?”

“I don’t know sweetheart, we haven’t written it yet” He hollered into the air.

Let’s see what tomorrow, a shower, and some hair gel brings, shall we?