April 24, 2009--Snowbirding: Haircut

As you can see from the photo on the right, I am not well blessed in the hair department. But even someone such as me with only an ear-to-ear fringe, once every month or two needs to get a haircut.

In order to reduce the traumatic effect of walking into a barber shop where all the other customers are from hairy Nordic or Mediterranean stock and to justify my spending twenty or more dollars for a job that should on me not take more than five minutes, I always show up at least a half hour before the time of my appointment in order to have some quality time with the magazines.

At home, of course I subscribe to The Nation, the Atlantic Monthly, and the indispensable New York Review of Books; and so during my monthly visits to the barber, or as most now prefer to call themselves--the hairdressers, unlike at a doctor’s office where their magazines tend to run from the New Yorker to Fortune to Newsweek, at barbershops, one of the few remaining male sanctuaries, they are more likely to have Sports Illustrated, Maxim, and of course Playboy.

So you get my point. What can I tell you, I’m a guy.

But the other day, when it was time for a trim, I forgot for a moment where I was—near where we are in Florida, at J___’s Men’s Hair Stylist; and so the magazines stacked neatly on the side table next to where I had settled in for my thirty minutes of perusing things soft-core were GQ and Road & Track and Car & Driver and Golf World and Flying and World War II, yes Maxim, and most intriguing, Garden & Gun.

I glanced quickly at Maxim, not much that was titillating there, and then took a closer look at Garden & Gun, wondering how the editor would combine the two subjects—would there be articles about shooting deer eating the shrubbery in the garden of your estate? I then took a closer look at the magazine’s subtitle—Garden & Gun: Soul of the New South. Got it.

And thus I was not surprised to see articles about “The Southern Home” and “A Portrait of the Architecture, History and Spirit of Where We Live” and “Down Home: Memories of a Childhood Escape in Kentucky” and “Southern Exposures: From the Cottage to the Plantation,” which, to its credit mentioned that some of those “cottages” were formerly slave quarters. Then I got to the gun part with articles such as “Yankees: A Northern Company Renews the American Double-Gun Tradition” and, my favorite, “Thirteen Ways of (Not) Looking at a Turkey: Finding Poetry, Peace, and Humor in the Hunt.”

From this, snowbirder that I am, I was reminded about where I was and, to tell the truth, I wasn’t all that unhappy to be pulled away from my reading by Inez, when it was my turn to hop up onto her barber chair.

I remembered her from my last visit nearly two months ago and so we skipped the small talk about the perfect weather here versus the still-damp-and-chilly weather up North and how lucky we are to be able to be here this time of year, and got right back to talking about her son, Roberto, who I learned last time was near the end of his junior year in high school.

“So, is he still doing well?” I asked. “Still thinking about college?” I am an inveterate educator. “I recall your telling me that he’s a good student.”

Inez was tightening the snaps at the neck on the gown that was to protect me from cut hair, and I could feel her tensing. “Well,” she said, “I remember not to make it too short in the back.”

It was obvious from her deflecting my question that all was not well with her son and so, not to invade her privacy, I simply said, “Yes. That’s the way my wife likes it. I don’t want to go home looking scalped.” She liked that and laughed while affectionately rubbing my extensive bare scalp.

She began to snip away at the hair that after two months was beginning to grow over my ears. But then she leaned close to me, pressing her body against my leg, and whispered, “To tell you the truth, I’m worried about him.”

In a soft voice so the man in the adjacent chair couldn’t overhear us, I asked, “What’s going on? I thought he was serious about his schoolwork and was hoping to take the SATs and think about which colleges to apply to.”

“He was. Now, all I do is worry about him.”

“What happened? Just two months ago he . . .”

“I know. But he turned 16 a few weeks ago and now all he cares about are his friends and the car. Do I need to say more?” I didn’t respond, thinking she had more to get off her chest. “I told you we came here five years ago from Panama?” I nodded. She had told me that when she was still a little girl, on weekends, she had learned to cut hair there in her father’s barbershop. It had not been an easy adjustment for them coming here, but they both knew good English and had assimilated in about a year, living in a nearby community among other Panamanian immigrants. Her husband after two years went back to Panama, he just one day picked up and left, to rejoin his girlfriend, abandoning her and Roberto. To make ends meet, she had told me, she’d been working six days a week in J____’s and at another place closer to where she lives.

“It’s beautiful here, no? I come here in the daytime where there is all sorts of activity in town and then I go home, only 25 minutes from here, where there is peace and quiet.”

“That does sound nice.”

“It does, but there is no peace for me any longer.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“You know, there are Panamanian gangs where we live; and though Roberto had been able to avoid getting involved with them, now that he thinks he’s become a man, I think he is running with one of them. I’m not sure, but he’s always wearing something red, a scarf or bandana or something, and I understand that’s what some gang members do.”

“I understand. That’s how they tag and identify themselves. It’s very hard for young boys when they reach puberty. There’s a lot of pressure on them to be . . .”

“Macho.”

“Yes, that.”

“I give him the keys to the car and tell him he must be back by 10:00, but he ignores me and comes home much later. When he’s out with those other boys so late I can’t sleep. Look at the rings under my eyes.” She pointed to them with her scissors. There were in fact deep, dark circles.

She continued to trim around my ears and for a while didn’t say anything further. I remained silent and still in the chair. But then, as if to herself, she said, “I don’t know what to do. I have no other family with me here. At times, to tell you the truth, I think about going back. To Panama. Taking Roberto with me. His grandfather, my father, maybe could help with him. But he has a condition. With his heart. He now can only work three days a week. So what could I expect from him? It would be unfair. It would kill him. Roberto was his only grandchild. He loved him so when he was a boy. He was such a good boy. Before we left. But now . . .”

“Is there any possibility of moving? I mean to a different neighborhood? To get him away from the gangs?”

“I haven’t the money to do that. I own a small house and couldn’t sell it now for anything. Half the houses on the block are for sale or foreclosed. What could I get for mine? Nothing. And then where would I go to? There are these gangs everywhere.”

To that I had nothing to suggest and so I again said nothing.

Inez by then was nearly done with me. She was gently shaving the few remaining hairs on my neck and behind my ears. After that, which only took a moment, she patted me dry, unsnapped the gown, and shook the cut hair from it onto the floor next to the chair. This was the signal for me to get up and pay her. But since there was no one waiting I remained seated, thinking maybe I could find something helpful to say. Last time I was so full of suggestions about how Roberto could prepare for the SAT and ACT exams. That now seemed like an eternity ago. This time I couldn’t think of anything useful or comforting. The magazines were long forgotten. Feeling I had to try to say something, not making eye contact, I said, “Maybe he could get some counseling. You know, at the school. There should be . . . “

“There are no counselors there. The one they had she was let go. Budget cuts. I thought of having him go to one privately. I would pay.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” I began to slide out of the chair, thinking it could be a good time to leave. On a positive note.

“With these kids that’s the last thing they would do. Again, it’s the macho.” I of course knew that was the problem. How could he face his friends if he was seeing a counselor? That’s the way it is some times. There’s nothing you can do but hope.”

“Time sometimes . . .”

“He’s young, that’s true, but time also is not kind to these boys. I could tell you stories about that. From my neighborhood.” But then quickly she smiled brightly and looked more like how I remembered her from my last visit. “You didn’t come in to hear my troubles.” I tried to wave that thought away. “But it’s true. You’re here on vacation. To relax, to get away from troubles, and here I am burdening you with mine.” Again I gestured that it had been all right for her to confide in me. “But as I said,” she was her radiant self again, “it is beautiful here. At least I have that.”

“Yes, it is lovely here.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“And you will come back to see me? You said you’d be here in June again for your mother’s birthday.” I had told her that. “You’ll need another trim by then. You’ll want to look nice for her.” I smiled and nodded.

After paying, as I was leaving, she waved and said, “I’ll still be here.”