Hair Care

I went in for a haircut today. It’s a cozy, small-town salon with four chairs and a sink. And though the palette and décor is steely blue and cool, there is undeniable warmth to the vibe. The last time this woman-- the owner-- cut my hair, my marriage was on the skids. I’d been losing weight, sleep and marbles. As she draped the cape around my neck with the finesse of a lady matador, she asked me what I wanted in her signature bright and measured tone. I straightened my shoulders, tossed back my hair, and said, “Something that will save my marriage.”
“You mean the number five,” she said.
“Yes, give me the number five,” I said and we shared a tentative laugh. I added, “No pressure,” then took off my glasses and we relaxed into the business at hand. (Needless to say, that haircut did not save my marriage. I did not fault her or the haircut.)

Today I went in for a whole new do-- a different one from a year ago. She did her thing and then asked her question with the same earnest verve as ever.

I smiled impishly. I'd be dropping another bomb today, which some might think not only cruel but in poor taste, but I went for it. I need a chuckle, and if anyone could handle it, she could.
“What can I do for you today?” she chirped.
"Can you give me something that will bring my father back from the dead?”

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry,” she said and she meant it as she touched her hand to her chest. I followed up quickly by saying, “It’s o.k.!” but I felt a bit bad for using my dad's recent death as material. I was pretty sure he wouldn't mind. He'd think it was funny. Then we laughed and I settled in to tell her my tale and we got down to the business at hand.

The more I talked, the more she listened, and she did that with finesse, too. She combed and cut and talked and listened and I imagined the compartments inside her brain whirring, like a jazz drummer using both hands and feet and smoking a cigarette while he plays. She wove strands of our old conversations into this one effortlessly-- her mind able to retrieve nuggets from my spotty client history without delay. This impressed me even more than the cutting hair/chatting, patting-head-rubbing-tummy thing, since I rarely see her out of the chair and only come in three or four times a year.

The things I've told her in that chair-- on and on as if there were soundproof walls separating me from the dye job next door. But there aren't. There's just hair and air. I don't even have the excuse of flimsy hospital curtains to act as a veil for my delusion of privacy. (And my payments have lapsed on my personal laser shield.) For some reason I'm able to carry on and on as if the other occupants, inches away, are stuffed mannequins, deaf or European. I've never, in my life, been able to recount someone else's conversation in the chair next to mine, so, perhaps they pump something into the air. I'll go with that for now.

My cut wound to and end and my dad did not materialize-- some things not even a haircut can fix. I complimented myself by complimenting my hairdresser then walked out of my haze and into the haze.

I thought about women and discretion, that little-spoken, much-considered notion of generosity.

All my life I've read and heard of a man's character described as great or strong. A man having good moral fiber or keeping his word have been germane to the great American novel and most black and white films since long before cable, but not enough credit is given to hairdressers and bartenders and the woman I've sat next to in waiting rooms. Not enough merit is given to women for discretion, most of whom, after all, are like walking skeleton closets-- reams and reams of personal information, available at the sip of a tea.

Girlfriends are forever coming and going as their distances are assessed and re calibrated. The concentric circles of friendships that ring every woman like so many hula-hoops, reverberate with confidences and data. And the onus is on us to not divulge. There are no meter maids for innuendo. The files of past friendships are thick and bulging with hardship, infidelity and sex. There are biological descriptions and renewed prescriptions and run ins with cops and his ex. Children and parents, husbands and neighbors, there's enough material there for a lifetime. But it's hard to read clearly the expiration date on a friendship. Like so many lines, it's smudged.

There's a powerful seduction at play with most women, to use this fodder to grow closer to another, newer friend. Confidences are currency and the strings that bind us become thicker and more cord-like with each moment two bodies lean in. But women have choices like the men who wear hats in the movies. They can say, "It's not for me to tell," or "You'll have to ask her." "It's in the vault," is a phrase I admire. Then they can lean back and change the subject or get themselves a refill. They can reconsider. They can stop.

It's not easy to do, and I'll admit, I'm no warrior. I've leaned in and recounted thickly veiled yarns mostly by saying, "this woman I used to know," or, "an old girlfriend of mine once," but there are times when I'm weak. There are times when I leak. I've eaten more than my share of dangling carrots.

At the end of the day, trust and discretion are a valuable portion of what amounts to a woman's character-- poorly lauded, perhaps, not as attention grabbing as other brassier traits, maybe, but no less valuable. And when you add a good haircut on top of that-- well, then you've got yourself a woman of fine character and considerable talent. What a find! And all too rare, indeed.