Short Cut

It was time. He felt the encroachment of several strands across his ears. Both ears. He had been putting it off because he didn’t have a lot of money in his bank account and was waiting for a check in the mail from his disability pension. He felt his usual twinge of conscience every time he thought about it because his knee had responded to therapy and he could get around just great of late. Better than great, he was jogging three days a week again and it felt good. He lost the pounds he had put on during the rehab of his knee, wore proudly his re-acquired tan and figured he was looking his best, at least compared to what he looked like before he conned the insurance company. He knew that the con was coming to a close as he got out into society more. Somebody would see him who knew he was on disability and would drop a dime on him. It was a certainty. But he had this one more check, at least, and it was going to go for one last improvement. He knew where he’d go.

Her name was Alicia and she knew him by sight. He had

 stumbled into her shop by accident one rainy day last April rather than go through the rain to his usual place. The shop where Alicia worked was actually not her shop, but Manny’s Cuts, owned by an absentee owner who wisely had formed an all-woman crew that drew a fantastic amount of male clientele. That was one reason that he hesitated to go back after the first encounter: too much competition. Now that he was comparatively buff, he figured his chances were as likely as any other guy’s at attracting Alicia’s attention. Now that it was his third visit, he figured his chances were even better. She had seen him in the middle of his recovery and now that he was at the end, he felt even more confident.

        “Hey, mister,” she greeted him. He had never told her his first name so he didn’t blame her for the general nature of her welcome.

        “Hey, yourself,” was the best he could do through his nerves.

        “You here for the usual?” Alicia said, smiling broadly. Her breasts aggressively attacked the front of her tee shirt that had “Manny’s” in Old English script splashed from side to side. The shirt was a bright red, the letters white and tucking the bottom into tight black tights completed the uniform of the place. At home, he imagined her in other clothes and without any. He did that often until he convinced himself that they had a future. This day, a warm day, he wore a tight white tee himself, one with tight armholes that emphasized his guns, such as they were. He flexed several times to strengthen the effect as he walked toward her chair. Alicia smiled as she accompanied him to the third chair on the right.

        “What you been up to since the last time?” she asked.

        “Same old,” he replied. “Nose to the grindstone stuff. You know.”

        “Sure do. This place gets to be like that around this time of year.”

        He wanted desperately to have something profound to say, to change the subject to something more significant, more personal, more impressive than clichés about work. He hoped that he could find something before she realized he had nothing.

        “I should imagine you’re so busy that you don’t have much time for personal stuff,” he tried.

        “Personal stuff? Like what?”

        “Oh, you know, movies and dinners out and that sort of stuff. Of course, somebody like you would have your pick of guys to take you out.”

        “Thanks, but I’m pretty tired when I finish here. No energy to go out much. Except on Saturdays, when I don’t work. Time to par-tee then!”

        He laughed as she put the plastic wrap around him, wrapping it firmly around the paper protector under his Adam’s apple. “What do you do for par-tees?” he asked.

        “Usually just a dinner out and maybe some dancing at any place that has good music.”

        “Live or DJ?”

        “Preferably live, but I take what I can get. I usually go with a group of girls from here so we drift from place to place.”

        “No guys? Seems such a waste.” This was said with a wise-ass grin that did not become him and felt awkward on his face.

        “No guys. We usually run into some wherever we end up, but that’s not why we go out, so no worries.”

        He held off, trying to think of something to keep the conversation in the ballpark of sociable without seeming gross. “What kind of guys do you usually end up with? As a group, I mean.”

        “Yuppies, mostly. Young lawyers out for a hoot. Hustlers who see us as good hunting material, out for one-nighters. You know, the usual creeps and crawlers.”

        Finally. He got to where he wanted to go. She started the clippers and trimmed the sides first.

        “They are pretty disgusting, aren’t they?” One last hesitation, then: “What kind of guy do you prefer? To the ‘creeps and crawlers’ I mean.”

        “Just regular guys who aren’t pushy and aren’t conceited and don’t think they never stink, I guess. You’d be surprised at how few of that kind are around these days. At least I can’t ever find one.”

        “I sympathize. I don’t go to the kinds of places you’re talking about but I’ve seen the type before. Seems like they all drive BMWs or those small Mercedes.”

        She laughed. “Right! Those two-seaters are popular with them. You can’t escape them once you get in them. Hate that.”

        “You usually go home with one from these places?”

        “No. Very seldom because we’re all together and it’s rude to break up the gang for a stud, no matter how lovely he is.”

        “So how do you find dates for yourself, then?”

        She looked around the shop. She had reached the top of his head with the clippers. “I find guys here I can talk with and some of them get up the nerve to ask me out.” She chuckled, making a joke out of it. He took her seriously.

        “Does it take just nerve to ask you out?”

        “Yeah, mostly. I’m intimidating, I guess. That’s what I’ve been told. Several times.”

        He couldn’t do it. She finished and used the foam and the razor to trim everything up neatly. With the flourish he always anticipated when he watched her finish, she swept the plastic cloth off him.

        “All done.”

        “I wish it had taken longer. I enjoy talking with you. A lot.”

        “And I enjoy talking with you. Should I know your first name?”

        “John,” he said. “John Mentol. John Mentol, at your service. I only wish my hair grew faster so I could see you more often.”

        “Oh, what a sweet thing to say! Thank you. We’ll see you soon then.”

        He opened his wallet and gave her a twenty.

        Alicia gave him back six dollars.

        “That’s too much change,” he said. “It’s twenty for the haircut and I have two here for a tip.”

        “But it’s Thursday, John. Senior discount day. You must have forgotten.”

        He stuck the six bucks in his pocket. When would he learn?