Sunday, February 27, 2005


I'd asked a friend who cut his hair. The local
barber. So that gave me courage. When we rented
a car, the man at Enterprise told me of his
local barber. So I decided to not go to Coupe
Bizarre or any of the sixty dollar stylists.
I'd cross the street to Kosutnjak. Polish?
Two chairs, one man, watching The Price is Right.
The photos of men on the walls were from
1972. They had that blue quality, where the
sun has leeched out all of the red. The barber
was barely five feet tall. You'll have to sit
a little further down, he said. Pushing me
down. A little further.
Bad idea, I thought. This will be terrible.
He started cutting my hair dry. You want it
short? Yes. This short? Shorter. I closed
my eyes. Bob Barker was saying this is the first
time in thirty-five years that two contestants
have bid the same price. The sound of Bob
Barker reminds of sick days at school.
Now he wets my hair a little. There is shape
happening. I am getting a sharecropper's look.
This is good, I can begin to look like Jack
Dempsey. Then an electric razor. And the final bit: he
unsheathes a straight razor. Have I ever had a
man skin me with a straight razor? Should there
be a warning? That's a lot of hair, he said.
You should have come in three months ago.
It's a lovely job, too much work for
thirteen dollars.


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