Ron
“Haircut?”
I nod to the barber as I enter his shop.
“You’re up next.”
“Thanks.”
I take a seat in Luigi’s, an old-school barbershop in downtown Palm Springs that hasn’t changed in decades. This is where
Elvis, Sinatra and Dean Martin got their hair cut when they played in the desert, and their photos still line the walls.
Luigi’s sits in the middle of La Plaza, one of the first shopping centers in Southern California. It opened nearly a century
ago and even contained a three-level parking garage. It became a successful model for open-air malls, and though the original
tenants are long gone, La Plaza retains its original Spanish architecture and vibe. It is now home to retail shops and great
restaurants, from the fabulous Farm to the popular burger joint Tyler’s whose scent of french fries wafts through the open
door of the barber shop.
I have come here today to have my demons cast out. This is my equivalent of being dunked in the river to be saved.
When I was a boy, my mother so loved my curly blond hair and was so terrified its beauty would be destroyed if I got it cut that she let it grow and grow until people in our little town thought I was a little girl.
My father, angry and embarrassed, picked me up from school one day and drove me to the country barbershop to have my golden locks shorn.
When the elderly barber lifted the clippers to my head, I shrieked. When he was done, I wept.
“I’m bald!” I cried. “I’m bald!”
My mother yelped when she saw me.
“My baby!” she moaned, which started me weeping anew, until my father slapped me.
“Shut up and be a man!” he said before turning on my mom.
That day, I hid in the root cellar, curling up on the cool floor next to a sack of potatoes, a bin of Vidalia onions and my
mother’s pickled okra and beets, kicking the walls, damning God, myself and the world, eventually doing the unthinkable: ripping
out hunks of what remained of my hair until my scalp bled, hoping the physical pain would remove the emotional hurt. It took
the longest time—until the last week, to be honest—to finally understand that it is our addictions—Teddy’s drinking, Barry’s
need to be wanted, Sid’s self-flagellation, my desire to please—that slowly kills us.
That is why I am here. To end the insanity.
I have never stepped foot in a barbershop again until today.
I cut my own hair growing up, until I discovered The Curl Up & Dye. I believed that my hair was my superpower, my armor and
my protection, like Wonder Woman’s lasso.
Unlike Gaspar’s, there is no champagne at Luigi’s, only talk of sports, a subject I am not fluent in. I stay glued to my cell
to avoid the chitchat.
“You’re up!”
I nod at the owner of Luigi’s, a man with kind eyes.
He holds out his hand before me in a fist. I stare at him blankly.
“Fist bump?” he asks.
I continue to stare.
“It’s a way to say hello.”
He shows me again, and I hold out a closed fist. He bumps it with his. I will never understand the way straight men think or act.
I take a seat in the same chair that Elvis likely sat in and then take a final glimpse at myself in the mirror, likely feeling
as Aaron Presley did when he was drafted into the army and had to get his hair buzzed.
“What can I do for you?” the owner asks.
“New start,” I say. “Cut it short.”
The barber looks at me. He touches the top of my carefully coiffed curls.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He grabs a spray bottle and wets my hair down. He combs it high and retrieves his clippers.
I jump when they begin to whir.
“You okay, man?” the barber asks, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I nod and focus on the patterns on the cape covering my lap: vintage graphics of shaving creams, brushes, straps and scissors.
I do not look up again until he is finished.
“What do you think?”
In my periphery, the barber holds up a mirror. I place my hands over my eyes.
“No,” I say. “I don’t want to look at myself until I get home.”
“Dramatic much?” an elegant elderly man asks, laughing at me.
“Always,” I answer. “It’s sort of my signature.”
I pay the owner, and he gives me another fist bump. I keep my back turned to the mirror. I avoid any reflection on my drive
home, my eyes firmly on the road before me. The top is down, and I do not feel my cloud of hair whipping around my head anymore.
I park my convertible and hurry inside, praying no one sees me.
I beeline to my bedroom, turning on all of the bathroom lights, take a deep breath and look into my mirror.
My father is staring back at me.
“Hi, Dad,” I say to myself. “There you are, you old son of a bitch. You’ve been hiding there all these years, haven’t you?”
I stare at my reflection. Everything looks different: the shape of my head, my nose, my eyes, the wrinkles, the lack of a
chin.
Out of habit, I grab some gel and try to style my hair. It is too short to do anything.
My safety net is gone.
I want to cry, but I laugh instead.
Hair on a head is not like the roof of a house. It is not a simple, shingled layer of protection from rain and sun. No, it
is fine design, a thing of precision and beauty, an accoutrement.
I glance up.
Like a vintage Sputnik chandelier.
A home should be a reflection of your soul, who you are, how you live, how you see the world and how you want the world to
see you. It should provide you beauty and comfort, but most of all, safety.
I was denied all of this and have spent my whole life trying to create it for others and myself. My life is in this home with
my friends. This home is my sanctuary from the cruelty of the world.
I have only wanted to be safe my entire life.
I touch my head.
I think of Dotty so long ago.
“Higher the hair, the closer to God.”
I don’t know how close or far away I am from God, but I am convinced of one principle: The only thing we can do is continue
to spread our wings, be good people and come as close to God as we possibly can through kindness.
I will never be a man of organized religion, but I will always be a child of faith.
I shut my eyes, and I can see my mom brushing my hair as a boy. I am seated in her lap. I am warm. I am safe.
Standing before my mirror, I finally allow myself to bid farewell to her, my childhood, my addiction, my crutch, the one thing that has ruled over me for as long as I can remember.
“It’s not your hair that has kept you safe, silly, vain boy,” I say to my reflection. “It’s you who’s kept you safe.”
I lean in even closer, and it is then I can see it clearly.
I don’t look like my father at all.
No: Smiling, without hair for the first time in my life, I look exactly like my mother.
I turn to leave but glance back at my new image one more time.
“Who am I kidding?” I ask my reflection, rubbing my hand over my hair. “I can’t wait until this all grows back again!”