My mind was spinning as I thumbed through the plastic pages of Bitch magazine. It’s natural to have something in your hands while waiting. Perhaps it was the promised list of the year’s best music that caught my attention but, even as I took it from the 10 foot long rack, I had no intention of reading it. I hadn’t come to read.
This was to be the first time in nearly a decade that an unknown person would cut my hair, but I wasn’t too concerned about the cut itself (I had committed to not more than a trim), rather the blind conversation-obligatory in these situations-that works to coil my intestines upon themselves like a snake ready to bite. I hadn’t come to talk, either, and could feel the familiar pangs of body urging mind to avoid discourse, so I flipped the pages, scanning slowly enough to feign reading.
It’s rare that I make my way up to Mississippi, but Panda had come highly recommended. Besides, the parking was easy and I could be home in 35 minutes. If I sat quietly and avoided eye contact the whole affair might last a couple of hours.
Be quiet. Don’t look.
^Jody?
Shit.
*That’s me.
Standing, I feel the coil wrap tighter and the saliva in my mouth migrate to hands.
What to do with the magazine?
I take my place in the chair.
^What are you loo--
*Tara sent me here...from Denim Salvage, I sputter. Heart beating too fast. Inconspicuous deep breaths are in order.
^Who?
Something resembling curiosity flashes across Panda’s face and I’m instantly where I do not want to be, but where I have been so many times before. The rush to talk, to be heard, to be admired-or at least viewed as a curiosity-invariably leads me far from intention, as pressured speech reveals my true lack of skill.
*Tara, from Denim Salvage in Oregon City.
(Can’t this just be over? All I wanted was a fucking trim and to go home.)
Pupils dilate and I see a connection has been made before I hear her voice.
^TARA?! I just love her!
A black school boy pixie tops an unexacting smile. I like Panda instantly.
^We board our horses at the same place in Canby.
My students had done some work for Tara-washing recycled clothes before they went on the shelves, and I told her. It’s hard to talk to people about what I do. Most people don’t have much of a point of reference and I’m not sure how to keep things moving. Initially, they are intrigued: You must have so much patience! It’s nice to say and seems to make people feel good, but it’s a reflex response and hardly accurate. The truth is, I have almost no patience at all, which is counter-intuitive to my profession, and the truth of it chokes me. Still, my work is one of the only things that sets me apart from the masses and I love it and I don’t do much else and when the talk hits I can feel the chemicals inside release their spark, and I’m alive.
But it doesn’t always hit.
Chemicals thin. The charge is easily lost. Conversation stalls as I grasp for something out of sight and out of reach.
Luckily, everyone has a nephew with autism so the talk can usually hang for a few moments. Our words embrace, make laryngeal love, and I refuse to let go; but you know what they say about holding onto something. My words make for a clumsy lover and my grip begins to falter. Slack and wordless, I’m left without mystery: exposed and naked, leaving the dull taste of the known and the common.
Panda takes to her work.
^You’ve got a little bit of a 90’s thing going on back here, I hope you don’t mind me saying.
This wasn’t always something that needed qualifying, but I’m becoming more comfortable with the distance between then and now.
*I’m at the mercy of the artist.
With each word viscera untangle, but I don’t want to get ahead of my myself so I close my mouth and look into the mirror. Too honest. Back to looking at the floor.
I try to focus on Panda’s words. She explains that the holidays were spent with the family of an elderly client, she being the youngest by generations.
^I don’t usually like the holidays, I kind of came from a weird home. I grew up in a family of racist homophobes. It turns out I actually like people, so I didn’t fit in too well. But I had a good time this year. They were nice people.
There is a pause and I know it’s my turn. My eyes raise to meet hers.
*We went home to California for Christmas. My aunt has been sick, so it was good to see her.
Without desperation, I gently segue and tell her I’m reading a biography on Theodore Roosevelt.
*That guy lived a thousand lives before he was president: Governor, Colonel in the Spanish American War, Assistant Secretary of the Navy, author — never stayed in one position for more than a couple of years.
A nod and quizzical look are taken as markers of interest.
Breathing normal, speech clear. Keep going.
*He was about as virtuous a person as there ever was.
Her turn.
^I’ve always been fascinated by Teddy Roosevelt. We did one of those president projects in school and I chose him. I think the only thing I remember is that his wife and mother died the same day.”
*They sure did. He ended up ripping up most of the pages in his diaries that mentioned his wife. The heartbreak is actually what sent him to Dakota, where he became a rancher. But he also said that black care never sits behind a rider whose pace is fast enough.
^What did he mean by that?
*I took it as his need to rush — to keep sorrow and self doubt behind him — with eyes straight ahead; to stare life in the face until it blinks.
The rise and fall in my chest suggest a natural rhythm. Calm. Salt and pepper clippings float softly to the ground like aborted feathers and mix gently with the ebony, auburn, platinum, burgundy, silver and slate of those who have sat in the chair before me.
The almost mullet is gone now; sides attenuated. I’m 43 and, aside from what Panda assures is only a receding hairline and not a global thinning, nearly hip.
A gentle dusting about the neck accompany the removal of the Barber’s cape and thin, white Sanex strip, leaving it soft and cool. Panda suggests the house organic spray might work well with my hair and produces a small, clear bottle containing six ounces of milky liquid.
Take my money. You’ve given so much.
*Thanks for the cut and talk.
^Thank you, I enjoyed it, and tell Tara I said hi!
It’s over.
The door glides shut and I step into the frigid vacuum of a Portland winter. The neon above reads Rudy’s. Running my fingers through the new fuzz on the back of my neck, I am six again. Tonight, my pace was just fast enough.
