Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
“You need a haircut,” Opal said when I clicked onto the call.
“How do—you can’t even see me,” I said. Though she was right. I desperately needed a haircut. My stylist was in West Hollywood and cost almost a hundred dollars. More than I made in a whole day as a barista, but it was worth it. I had to look good if I wanted people to buy me drinks at Rage.
“Go to Bob’s. It’s on Grover Street at the south end of the village. They’re open until seven.”
I glanced at the clock next to my bed. It was just after six, I could be there by six-thirty.
Nana Cole would be happy sitting in front of Fox News.
The O’Reilly Factor came on at eight, but I was sure I’d be back by then to change the channel.
She always got a little mean after that show, so it was a good idea to distract her with something else.
Anyway, I made her a sandwich and said a quick goodbye before I rushed out to the Escalade. Clearly, Opal was giving me an important clue. Though I had no idea what exactly. It didn’t matter, I did really need a haircut.
When I arrived at Bob’s, I parked across the street and then walked over to the salon—er, barbershop.
Oh, my God, it was a barbershop. Except, really, it didn’t even look like that.
Inside there were three barber’s chairs, that was true.
But the walls were covered with fishing lures.
And above the fishing lures, taxidermized deer heads.
Well, three deer heads and one very large fish.
A sign near the cash register told me I could get a fishing license for ten dollars. Less if I was sixty-five or blind. Luckily, I was neither.
“You want a haircut?” the older of the two barbers asked.
“I do, yes,” I said turning to look at him. He was in his late forties, in good shape and wore his graying hair in a George Clooney-style Caesar haircut.
“I’ll be done in a minute.”
His customer was a guy in his sixties in overalls and gray stubble. There was a John Deere cap sitting on the counter. I assumed it was his and wondered if it really mattered what his hair looked like.
The other barber was much younger, tall and thin, pale, with a dimple in his chin and a patch of acne on each cheek. His hair was short and spiked up with gel. He’d painted one fingernail black, a small act of rebellion.
His client could have been the brother of Mr. John Deere. They looked that much alike. The radio was playing Dr. Laura. I guess they thought they were feminists.
I sat down in what seemed to be a banquet chair. On the chair next to me was a recent copy of Field it always was, facing forward while someone stood behind you.
“So, what’ll it be?”
Since my hair was longer, we could do something with it so I said, “How about a faux hawk?”
“Oh yeah, I know what you mean. Sure.”
He put a giant smock around me.
“Are you Bob?” I asked.
“You’re not from around here,” he said, rather than asked.
“Um, no.”
“There hasn’t been a Bob for twenty years.”
“Oh. Okay.” Even though it was the other barber I needed to be talking to, I decided to be friendly to this one. “I’m Emma Cole’s grandson.”
“Uh-huh, I know,” he said.
How did he know? Why did he know? I’d never seen him before in my life. What was it with these people?
“I used to cut your grandfather’s hair.”
“That’s cool. I guess.”
“How are your cherries?”
“They’re fine,” I said, wondering how exactly were cherries supposed to be? And why did people talk about them so much?
“I cut Jasper’s hair, too.”
“Cool. I’ve only been here since February. I came out from L.A. To take care of my grandmother for a while.” Yes, yes, yes, that was a lie. But then, didn’t everyone lie to their hairdresser? Besides, I had the feeling he already knew most of my story.
I tried to think of something else to say but came up empty.
I mean, I wanted to find out what they knew about Reverend Hessel, but that was awkward.
And besides, Opal had sent me here for the younger guy.
That meant he might be a tweaker. Right?
And if he was the druggie who tried to rob the church and killed the reverend—well, I probably shouldn’t let him know I was onto him.
“Los Angeles is a pretty dangerous place.”
“Not really,” I said. “On a per capita basis there’s less crime in urban areas than rural ones.”
Dead silence. I wondered if he understood what per capita meant?
Should I have said, ‘per person’? He seemed offended.
They all seemed offended. But they couldn’t be offended by a crime statistic, could they?
I mean it was just a fact. Not to mention my experiences in Masons Bay sort of proved my point.
Honestly, I had no clue what men talked about when they were alone. Straight men, I mean. I couldn’t remember the last time I was in an all-male, all-straight place. Not that the barbershop was all-straight at that particular moment—I was there. And the tweaker I was there to meet probably—
The door opened and in walked a guy in his twenties wearing a camouflage cap and a confederate flag T-shirt. He smiled at my barber, a sweet-natured smile.
“Have a seat, Tim. Denny will be with you in a minute.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
So, Old George Clooney’s name was Joe. And the tweaker’s name was Denny. I guess if you just wait long enough information comes to you. I wondered if there was a Bob somewhere who’d named the place after himself.
Joe was chopping away at my hair. Directly above Tim’s head was a pennant for the Michigan State Spartans. I debated for a moment whether that was a football or a baseball team. I guessed football. Football fans seemed to be a whole lot prouder of themselves than baseball fans.
I wondered, though, if Joe knew much about the ancient Spartans.
Homosexual warriors. Probably wouldn’t believe me if I told him.
Though I had no plans to tell him. ‘Did you know that the ancient Spartans fought as gay couples? Do your Spartans do that too?’ No, that would guarantee my haircut took a wrong turn and I was not about to risk my hair.
“Done,” Denny said. His client got up and crushed his Ford hat onto his head without even looking at his haircut.
Denny took his money and put it into the cash register. As the guy waked out, he told Tim, “Come on. You’re up.”
Tim walked over to the chair, saying, “What’s up, Denny? How you been?”
“Okay,” Denny said. There was a bit of diffidence in his voice that made me think there was something between them. A not-very-good something. Like, maybe Tim had bullied Denny in grade school. Or maybe Denny didn’t like confederate flags. Or hunters.
Tim began chatting happily about people they knew in common. I decided I was right that they’d gone to school together. They looked around the same age.
Abruptly, Joe told me I was finished and handed me a mirror so I could check out what he’d done.
Immediately, I saw that he hadn’t given me a faux hawk at all.
He’d given me a Caesar—just like his own, just like George Clooney’s.
I wasn’t happy—I mean, what? He thought this was 1993?
Still, I said, “Thanks. What do I owe you?”
“Ten dollars.”
Ten dollars? Ten dollars was a tip in L.A. And not a very good one. It did ease the pain of getting a haircut I didn’t exactly ask for. I took out some cash, tipping him two dollars.
On my way out the door, I looked over my shoulder and gave Denny my best L.A.-dance-club-follow-me-out-to-the-smoking-area look.
Damn, if he wasn’t waiting for it, too.