12:49 p.m. - February 14, 2002
On capons and barbers
Drunk barbers don't do a head full of hair justice but what is one to do when immobilized by the haircloth and the paper strip always too tight around your neck? The minute one sits in the faux-leather or ancient naugahyde chair you surrender autonomy at the expense of the 538,000 (or so) hairs that comprise one's vanity and another's wishful thinking.
I visit my barber, whom I'll cloak in anonymity (since I have indeed learned my lesson) and call Johnny, once a month for the usual cut. He calls me Teach and I call him Johnny and we normally have great discussions on adolescent behavior (Johnny currently has four daughters of high school age and trust me, the man is heading for the precipice) and the state of the world as seen from the barber's eyes while he does what he thinks serves my best interests hair-wise: He is 100% certain that I am Latino and don't know it, and should style my hair to reflect said heritage, which for him means cut it short and comb it back with one of those plastic finger-combs that scrape the scalp. I don't quibble because regardless of what he does or I do later, my hair has a mind of its own.
He was giggly. Now, a big ol' macho Latino barber shouldn't giggle because that activates the Twilight Zone theme coming from the ceiling speakers and makes you think This Dream Is Weird. He says Teach Teach I Haven't Seen You Where Have You Been and then switches to Spanish because he says I need to immerse myself in my unknown-yet-obvious background and run with the machismo spirit. I sit and he wets my hair while he tells me about one daughter's boyfriend who had a condom in his wallet--Johnny discovered this while snooping; he claims that when a daughter is concerned anything a father wants to do is open provenance and I suspect he is right--and continues to say that he sat his girl and her boy down and said Daughter Do You Want to Date a Rooster or a Chicken and said Boy If You Think You're Gonna Be a Rooster With My Daughter Think Again Because I'm A Barber And Know How To Use Shears and both paled and said Si and I'm sitting there thinking this is a good story until I notice he's cutting my hair _much_ closer than usual, as in the number one clipper and I exclaim Whoa That's Close and Johnny says Oh... Now You Have The Hair Every Latina Wants as if he's planned it all along when I know it's not fate or happenstance but the bourbon I smell on his breath that guides his freestyling.
What is one to do? Mid-barber you can't say I'll take my business elsewhere and leave with your hair clippings gathered from the floor and look for a more skilled executioner, so I sat there and thought My Hair Grows Fast.
Johnny giggled and laughed and snorted and giggled some more as he talked about Valentine's Day being a nightmare for all real men and was likely conjured by ugly women in women's studies departments. I reminded him that women's studies departments haven't been around all that long and he said Of Course Teach But Ugly Women Are Ugly Women Yesterday And Today and I think Johnny must moonlight as the Latino Rush Limbaugh afterhours given the passion with which he speaks against Hallmark cards and how women have ubersensitized men into capons running around looking for mistress chickens. OK, so I've liberally interpreted from Spanish, but you get the idea.
Half an hour later my hair is cut and thinned and as I leave he says For Valentine's Day Son, Spank Her On The Ass And She'll Love It and I laugh and he laughs and takes another sip from his glass.
The hair's not that bad. I won't be surprised if my girlfriend says Aye papi and nibbles my earlobe before I swat her backside the way women like in the bedroom but not in public and I'll have to remember to thank Johnny for his ministrations.
