by Ron Singer.
(Dedication: once again, sposibo, Nicolai.)
Needing a haircut, my good friend Sy Peavis (“P”) tried to call Angelo, his barber, for an appointment. (P. told me this story over the course of several lunches.) When the number did not work, he wondered if the cause might be a broken water main around the corner from the barbershop, a block from his apartment. Out for a walk later that day, he was accosted by Angelo’s colleague, Giovanni, who was standing at the edge of a huge hole in the street, inside of which several workers were trying to lasso the damaged pipe. Shouting frantically into his cell phone, Giovanni pinched P’s sleeve and mimed for him to wait.
When he had finished the call, the barber closed his phone and, with a solemn look, announced, “You must have heard the news. Angelo just died.”
“Oh, no!” said P. “When did it…?”
“About a week ago.”
“I knew he was sick, but…”
This was an understatement: Angelo had been afflicted with spinal cancer for several years, and had suffered through several operations, plus all sorts of unpleasant treatments, which had left him a pale bag of bones, permanently doubled over. Ever the stoic, he would make perfunctory replies to P’s questions about his health, after which they would jump to their favorite subjects, used cars and fishing. Angelo had been an aficionado of both. It amused P., a retired paralegal with a Masters Degree in History, to be schooled by the barber, who had dropped out of the third grade in Sicily, more than a half century before, to become apprenticed to a local man.
Each time he handed over the sixty dollars (haircut, tax, tip), P. would say, “You’ve done it again, Angelo. You’ve made a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
The first time, the quip had sent Angelo, who had never heard it before, into paroxysms of laughter. This was before he was stricken, after which his laughter gradually became softer and more contemplative. Recently, it had subsided into a sick man’s smile. Angelo and P. went way back.
The haircuts, over the years, were works of art. As P. grew balder, and his face more jowly, the barber made subtle adjustments. Since I find it impossible to describe haircuts, I’ll try, instead, to re-create my friend’s account of their last conversation:
P. (looking at the back of his head in the big mirror, which reflected the small one held by the barber): Beautiful, as usual! Perfect! I don’t know how you do it, Angelo. You always manage to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
Angelo (with a wan smile): Thanks, Mr. P. It’s a matter of suiting the haircut to the head. If it’s a long head, you try to make it look shorter. If the customer is (winks) –I mean, has– a fat head, you make it look narrower. If the hair’s straight, you cut it one way; if it’s curly, like yours (smile) … and if it’s getting thin (shrug)…
Angelo was a very good barber –period. In fact, the only reason I didn’t go to him, myself, was that I’m too cheap. Sixty dollars is a bit rich for my blood.
P’s account of his conversation with Giovanni at the hole continued, as follows: “I tried to call for an appointment this morning, but…”
“The landline is down.” Giovanni gestured to his phone. “I was just talking to the company.” “They’re going to re-route the calls to our cells.” “Our” presumably included the phone of the other surviving barber, Dave.
“I’ll call later, then…” P. stopped himself from adding, “to make an appointment with one of you.” Instead, he substituted, “to get his address, so I can send the family a card.”
“That would be nice.”
P. wondered if Giovanni had noticed the verbal hiccough. He did not really want to make an appointment with either surviving barber. Giovanni was a blowhard –P. didn’t like him—and although Dave was quiet and gentlemanly, his breath was terrible. Nor did what P. had seen of their handiwork measure up to Angelo’s standard. (Have you got the idea that my friend is on the rigid side?)
When he called the next day, Giovanni picked up, presumably on his cell. After some more small talk about phones, P. asked for, and was given, the address of Angelo’s family. (He avoided saying, “widow.”) “I think I’ll wait a bit before I get a new haircut,” he added. “I’m not quite ready to…”
“Of course, of course,” said Giovanni. There was a silence.
“Are you going to try to find a replace… someone else?”
“ Well, sure, we have to, but we’ll wait a while. It won’t be easy to find someone suitable.”
P. ended the conversation by thanking Giovanni again for the address. P. is the kind of man who never forgets an anniversary or birthday, even if the celebrant is (like me) pushing seventy-five. As you must have realized by now, he is also completely frank in his confidences. But, then again, I’m his best friend.
By coincidence, “Peavis” is what they call a “significant name.” Not to dump on him, but he is a fussy (peevish) man, fastidious about haircuts, likewise food and dress. Public farting and spitting provoke more than just mild distaste, as does a mot injuste, or even worse, a grammatical solecism, such as, “Please contact Judy or I.” When you’re talking to P., you’d better mind your P’s and Q’s! (If he ever reads this account, I dread his corrections.) I might add that the reason I am referring to him by an initial is stylistic. Since “Peavis” and “P.” both sound pretentious, I’ve chosen “P.” as the lesser evil. In person, I call him “Simon,” or “Sy,” his given name. I apologize for this trivial digression in a story about death.
The day after he spoke with Giovanni, P. sent the condolence card. Although he had never met Angelo’s wife, he had heard enough about her, over the years, that he knew the right tone to take. He was surprised how easy it was to find words to express his gratitude for all the wonderful haircuts and conversations.
Over lunch, about a year earlier, P. had related an incident from his working days that featured a colleague’s astute observation about this matter of farewells. Having tendered their awkward goodbyes, at the airport, to another, unpopular man, who was being transferred to the L.A. office, P. and the colleague were walking back to the cabstand.
“You know, Sy,” the colleague remarked, “it’s usually easier to say goodbye to someone you’ll actually miss. Someone you like.”
“A paradox,” P. had replied, “but very true.”
In narrating this anecdote, he had added the telling detail that he had then brushed some cement dust from a pant leg. “Why,” he asked, “are airports under perpetual construction? It makes them seem like crash sites.” Among his other virtues, P. knows how to tell a story. The fact that he is a non-Irish, near teetotaler may make this skill even more remarkable.
In the weeks after he sent the condolence card, P’s shaggy head frequently turned his thoughts to Angelo. He wondered if he missed the barber more because of their relationship, or because he anticipated how hard it would be to replace his haircuts.
He considered his options. The year before, while Angelo had been convalescing from surgery, P. had tried a woman named Tanya, who worked at a Unisex salon in Brooklyn, and was Judy, his wife’s, barber. (The P’s lived in lower Manhattan.) That haircut had been fairly good, but not even close to Angelo’s standard. Cost was not an issue, since Tanya also charged sixty dollars.
“Maybe, I’ll try Tanya again,” he remarked to Judy, over breakfast.
“Why not, Sy? You seemed satisfied last time.”
P. did not reply. Tanya, he remembered, was a single mother whose conversation was limited to chitchat (the weather, her children), and even that in small doses, since the haircut had been accompanied by bland, non-stop “oldies” on the radio. As he recalled the experience, he crossed Tanya off his mental list. But he did not tell Judy, because he knew she liked Tanya, and apparently did not mind the music. Maybe, Tanya did better work on women or, at least, on Judy, whose haircuts always managed to look stylish and age-appropriate. Mrs. P. was sixty-eight; P., seventy-four.
When Judy looked thoughtful, P. knew the conversation was about to take a serious turn. “You know,” she said, “maybe this is really about that topic we’re always discussing, how to rejuvenate ourselves –renewal.”
“Like library books,” he quipped.
“Think about it, Sy,” she said, “you’ve renewed your eyes –laser surgery; your prostate –same; and your, er, your penis —Viagra. Maybe, you’re suffering from irrational exuberance, and you think you can bring Angelo back.”
“Thanks a lot, Dr. Fraud,” P. riposted. But he knew she was right. In fact, two nights before, he had dreamt of his own death, followed by a ludicrous funeral, in which he was lionized as an equestrian champion and a fabulously successful stockbroker, which had felt, in dream logic, as if he were being re-born.
Later that morning, trying to picture the haircuts of some of his acquaintances, P. remembered one that stood out –a smart, but not trendy, haircut. Unfortunately, it belonged to a person of Chinese extraction. Since this man, Cheng Yi, an accountant at the law firm, had had a full head of thick, straight, black hair, P. doubted he would be much help. But he called him, anyhow, and Cheng promptly recommended a barber in East Harlem.
“Don’t worry, he cuts all kinds of hair. He’s not even Chinese. His name is Mario –Italian. And he’s cheap, twenty dollars, tax and tip included. I don’t think he has a phone. He’s old, but he’s good.”
P. was excited about Mario. When Judy got home from work that evening (Office Manager, real estate), he described the conversation with Cheng. She did not ask why he had decided against Tanya.
Instead, she said, “That’s nice, dear. Another Italian. Maybe, he’ll be good, too.” She did not sound as if she really cared. P.’s guess was that she liked his hair to look good, but didn’t want to know the details.
After breakfast the next day, he googled the barbershop, which was called, simply, “Mario’s.” There was an address, but no phone number. Nor were the hours of operation listed, but P. assumed that, since it was the middle of the week, the shop would be open. He also googled the local library branch where, in case Mario was out to lunch when he arrived, he could kill an hour over a magazine. Very sensible!
P. also found several websites that reviewed barbershops, but he did not bother reading them. “Anyone,” he thought, “can have a friend who posts complimentary lies, or a rival who seeds the reviews with malice.” But he did google directions, determining that he could reach the barbershop via a long subway ride and a manageable walk.
As I mentioned, P. was a details man, probably a holdover from his days as a para. The thermometer outside his kitchen window told him he would need the suede jacket. Deciding not to bother shaving, he brushed his teeth, used the toilet, got dressed, checked that he had enough cash, and set out for the subway. Anticipating a new experience, and the chance to keep getting good haircuts, P. was excited.
“Angelo would have approved.” Like P., Angelo was –had been– a man whose life was guided by common sense, which, as we know, is all too uncommon.
Catching the #6 to 116th and Lexington, P. walked east toward the address on the Internet. In sharp contrast with the chain stores and glass-fronted condo and co-op buildings of his neighborhood, this one was old-fashioned and lively. Even though it was one of those chilly, unpredictable days in early spring, there were men on the corners, some drinking, some just laughing and talking. There were even a few premature stoop-sitters in front of the run-down residential buildings, most of which were four or five-story brownstones.
The Internet had indicated there was only a single barber at Mario’s. “Good,” P. thought, he didn’t need to worry about having an assistant fobbed off on him. But he did worry that there might be several waiting customers, and that, if he had to hold a place on Mario’s queue, the library plan might prove untenable.
As he approached the address, he was relieved to see that the old barbershop was still there. At least, there was a striped pole. Even better, the place looked open. The door was held ajar by a piece of string attached to a nail on the wall beside the shop. Just as he was about to enter –ta da!– he heard another customer saying goodbye to Mario. This was good news. P. could inspect the barber’s handiwork before making a commitment. Even better, when the other customer poked his face out, he appeared to be of either Mediterranean or Caribbean extraction, which meant he might have the same tightly curled, springy hair as P’s.
No such luck! On closer scrutiny, the man had hardly any hair, at all! The barber had shorn him like a sheep. A clipper job! No wonder the place was so cheap, or, as the witty P. put it later, “At least it wasn’t a clip joint!” And thank goodness he had spotted the man before he went in! What could Cheng have been thinking?
Sauntering past the open door, P. noticed that there were no other customers inside. Occupying the barber chair was (presumably) Mario, a fat, exhausted-looking old man, whose loud snoring could be heard from the sidewalk. Resisting the blandishments of tasty Latino snacks fried in unhealthy oils (ugh), and still wearing his shaggy hair, P. retraced his steps and took the subway home.
Enough was enough! As soon as he had shed his jacket, he called Tanya. Luckily, she had an opening, in about two hours. After eating lunch and setting the alarm on his watch, he took a short nap, re-gathered himself, and caught another subway, this time in the opposite direction, toward Brooklyn.
Three hours, twenty pop tunes, forty commercials, and a running monologue later, sixty dollars changed hands, and P. had his new haircut. Riding the subway home again, he recalled his images in Tanya’s mirror, before and after. From a shaggy, but beautifully sculpted head –almost Greek– had emerged a neat, ordinary, Middle American-looking one.
Whoa! That sounds like my head! At this point in the story, as P. is about to discover why his barber-replacement problem was proving so recalcitrant, I have an embarrassing confession to make: Mr. Simon, Sy, Peavis (P.) and I, his anonymous, self-proclaimed narrator, are one and the same person. Call me/us “Mr. Pretense.” I’m not sure why I’ve been using this ploy, which I do hope you’ve found amusing, rather than just affected, but I think the point was to see myself in my own mirror. If you feel used, Dear (I hope) Reader, mea culpa. As I conclude the story, the mirror will show me shorn, which is to say (I hope), even more clearly. My co-pilot will now assume the controls.
When I got home, after taking a shower and reading for a while, I warmed up the leftovers from the delicious meal Judy had prepared the previous evening –vegetarian chili. I also cooked the rice, cut the bread, and set the table. My timing was perfect. Just as the chili began to bubble, I heard her key in the door. Five minutes later, as we sat in our accustomed places, sipping wine and waiting for the food to cool, she noticed my haircut.
“Well, dear,” she said matter-of-factly, “very nice. It looks like the one Tanya gave you last year. And you must have saved about forty dollars.”
As I explained what had really happened, I could see her metaphorically biting her tongue. Decades before, we had established a marital rule. Since we both hate to be told, “I told you so,” the rule is for the person who has been wrong to say, but only if they want to, “You told me so.”
I didn’t say it. Instead, I said, “Now that I’ve bought some time, I think I’ll keep trying to find someone better.”
Judy’s face was an open book. She was trying to compromise between what she really wanted to say (“Get a life, you pathetic jerk!”) and something a bit more sympathetic. After all, one of these days, she might be retiring, herself. What she came up with was what I meant when I said I had been metaphorically shorn.
“You know, dear.” Her smile danced on the border of empathy and condescension. “Remember my ‘renewal’ theory? I have another one. As I’ve said a thousand times, you’re a very fussy man.” By then, I was cringing from the huge, other shoe that was about to fall –on my head. “Some people,” she continued, “think that fussiness is a sign of anxiety. But I think it can also come from loneliness.” I opened my mouth to point out that, since I had her, how could I be lonely? She made a stop-sign gesture.
“Yes, I know, dear,” she said. “You have me. And you’re very sweet. But you don’t have Angelo, anymore, do you? And you know what else? You and I aren’t all that different. I need my women friends, and thank goodness, between the office and the ‘Y,’ I do have a few.” She reached across and touched my hand. “But you don’t have any men friends, do you, Sy?” That hurt, but at least I knew enough not to mention my imaginary friend, the other narrator.
“So I guess you will have to keep searching.” She sighed. “But why does it have to be a barber?”
She was right, of course, and I didn’t contradict her. But I wasn’t quite ready to give in. Peeping across the table with my sheep’s eyes, beneath my shorn head, I told myself I could not imagine anything as enjoyable as a perfect haircut accompanied by a wonderful conversation. By now the chili had cooled, so we dug in.
Toward the end of the meal, Judy smiled again, warmly this time, and said, “Uh, Sy, my darling, do you think that, later on, we might, uh…”
“Sure,” I replied, even though, having traipsed around town all day, I felt anything but sure.
(3,132)