THE CHANGE

    When Frank opened his eyes, he could feel the gurney rumble beneath him. The fluorescent rectangles whizzing past his field of vision told him he was being wheeled down a hospital corridor. Frank tried to survey his immediate surroundings, to find a familiar face. He could see only strangers enveloped in a din of medical terms and stern commands. The adrenaline swirling about him was palpable. It seemed to accumulate until it overwhelmed him, and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

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   “Have a good time, hon. Say hi to Jean. You two behave yourself.” Frank laughed at her reply.

   “Ok, then party on,” he relented.

   Frank’s wife, Sondra, had long planned to drive out and see her sister for a girls-only, three-day weekend. It would scandalously consist of puzzles and Mojitos.

   Frank’s time alone would be contrasted by the absence of any plans. He figured he would watch a game or two. Maybe he’d get over to the hardware store to buy supplies for a repair he had no intention of doing.

   Not sure if he would even get dressed today, Frank gave himself a once-over in the floor length mirror propped up in the corner of the bedroom. The lounge pants would stay, but should he change his shirt? Would that help him feel more motivated, less listless?

   Something was weighing on him. Frank studied his reflection with renewed scrutiny. He looked at his chest and arms, pulling his shirt a little tighter around him. He took full inventory of every soft plane and muscle memory lost to time.

   The truth was that Frank hadn’t completely fallen victim to the dad bod. He only had the very beginnings of a beer belly, and at 45, it could be said that he cut a rather attractive silhouette with the right clothing. A joke Sondra would typically use when they got dressed to go somewhere was, “Wow, you clean up nicely.” So, to find that Frank was in the midst of a personal midlife crisis would have shocked anyone who knew him.

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   Frank’s eyes opened briefly, this time the frenzy over him had subsided. It was replaced by the methodical listing of injuries.

   “Possible mild to moderate concussion. Severe sprain to right wrist. Multiple mild contusions and epidermal abrasions.” The doctor’s female voice was controlled, almost soothing. Frank signed and drifted off to sleep.

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   Still looking in the mirror, Frank ran his hands through his hair. He tried to remember the last time he had a different haircut. He had found what he liked a long time ago and the barber who could give him what he liked with only two words, “The usual.” Frank never thought to change it, until today.

   He moved over to the bed and sat. Pulling out his phone, he typed a search for MATURE MEN’S HAIR STYLES. He selected images and was greeted with an endless mosaic of photoshopped, coiffed men who could hardly be described as mature. It seemed the internet was intent on passing off prematurely gray millennials as silver foxes. Ironically, one of the images was captioned, SILVER FOX CUT.

   “Silver foxes,” said Frank, surprised he didn’t enter that first. He quickly retyped his search for SILVER FOX HAIRCUTS. Another mosaic landscape of silvery-headed gents materialized. This time, the majority of models were honestly mature men, albeit genetically superior to most humans. Just the same, Frank could now better imagine himself in one of these hair styles after seeing them on his fellow mid-lifers.

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   A soft, mechanical beeping entered Frank’s consciousness. It became more prevalent, maintaining him in a suspended half-sleep, neither awake nor submerged in a REM state. He sensed a dull ache in his right hand, or was it his wrist? He couldn’t tell. Frank felt as if his body was floating, his head slowly spinning. While the beeping kept Frank tethered to the mortal world, he was nonetheless held in some otherworldly dimension.

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   He moved in closer to the bedroom mirror and scanned his face. With his fingers, he traced the crow’s feet around his eyes and furrows that ran horizontally across his forehead. Maybe he just needed more rest, but his attention came back to his hair. Possibly something there, a small change, a desperately needed change.

   Frank turned and made his way out into the hallway. He opened the hall closet and pulled down a black vinyl box. He turned and carried the box into the bathroom. Placing the box on the closed toilet seat, he positioned himself square in the mirror. Frank took a good look at his head, the shape of it, the type of hair he possessed, and his hairline.

   He reached down and unsnapped the box. He grabbed the main appliance, Oster clippers, a stalwart workhorse of black and silver, and held it up to where he could get a good look at it. It was heavier than he remembered, but the familiar smell of burnt oil and metallic soot took him back to all those haircuts he gave his two boys.

   It was simple. A summer cut required a number two comb. The boys were out of school, and all they wanted to do was play and go in the water, so if dad messed up here or there, no classmates were around to make fun. Still, Frank got rather proficient at knocking out two boys’ buzz cuts in twenty-five minutes, thirty tops.

   But Frank knew this could go badly, and he didn’t have summer vacation to hide behind. Come Monday, he’d be back to work and Sondra would be home. Conversely, he knew where the number two comb was, an ace up his sleeve. After all, it was only hair; it’s supposed to grow back. Silver Fox or middle-aged buzz cut, there was going be a change.

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   The mechanical beeping kept pulsing through Frank’s twilight sleep. His dulled senses interpreted it as a sadly inept car alarm, then as a phone ringer, one he could not seem to answer, no matter how much he willed himself to.

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   Franked was jolted from the standoff with his reflection by the vibrating phone in his pocket.

   “Hey, Dan, what’s up?

   “Just want to know if you’re up for Sullivan’s tonight,” offered Dan.

   “Ah, man, I just wanted to stay home and watch the Eastern Conference first round on TV,” said Frank, attempting to sound as beleaguered as he could.

   Dan shot back. “They’ll have it on there. Come on. I’ve been fixing stuff around the house all day, and I need a break. I need to get out.”

   “I don’t know if I’m up to it, and I still need to do something here,” Frank lamented.

   “It’s only four. I’m talking about getting there at six-thirty or seven. You have time.”

Dan’s last press was more emphatic. Frank could tell he needed to get out and blow off some steam.

   “I’ll think about it. What time did you say?” Frank inquired.

   “Make it seven. You have three hours. Thanks, man, I owe you,” said Dan, ending the call.

   It wasn’t that Frank couldn’t have gotten up the desire to get dressed and go. He didn’t know how long the haircut would take, and afterwards if he’d be at all presentable for public viewing.

   Frank pulled up one of the images on his phone which caught his eye. Enlarging the image as much as his phone would allow, Frank studied the hairstyle. Although the style was recently exploited by the Hipster crowd, he knew it to be a very old cut. Frank had seen vintage photographs from the thirties and forties and an occasional TCM film noir tribute showing men with this cut. If Frank went through with this, he would either end up a nod to old Hollywood or resemble a Hipster outcast, sans the beard.

   Frank plugged in the clippers and retrieved the number three comb from its compartment. He oiled the blades and positioned the comb over them, pushing down until he heard a tight click. With a sigh and the loosening of his shoulders, he lifted the clippers to his right temple. He then thought to himself, Where is that number two comb?

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Flashes of a memory, bits and pieces of an incident began to materialize within Frank’s mid-level metal state. Am I dreaming? What are these images? He saw himself falling and the floor rising up to meet him. He saw a stairwell. He had the sensation of hitting the edge if something. A stair step, a wall, a stair step again, reaching for a handrail. The images were jumbled and coming in fragments, recycling over and over, bringing him closer to consciousness. Beep…beep…beep.

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   Frank wiped up the last strands of hair from the sink. Without looking in the mirror, he reached for the hair gel. It was a big jar of bluish semi-glue. Frank dug out a sizeable dollop and applied it demonstrably, training his hair strands straight back. He rinsed and dried his hands, and paused. Then he looked up at his reflection.

   The relief Frank felt and the evaporation of anxiety was so quick, it almost made a sound. He turned his head from side to side, scrutinizing his handiwork. Frank couldn’t believe that his eyes appeared larger and more open, his face narrower. Was all this possible with just a little less hair? Frank thought how much salon clients were willing to pay to feel more attractive, so it must be true.

   Frank picked up his phone and pressed the most recent call.

   “We’re on for tonight. See you at seven,” said Frank confidently.

   Frank entered Sullivan’s a couple of minutes shy of seven. Straight ahead of him he spotted Tim, the bartender. After a quick acknowledgement, he zeroed in on Dan, who was seated at the end of the bar. He swiftly made his way over.

   Frank wore an untucked white Oxford, button-down collar shirt under a black Dickies Jacket, dark jeans, and black canvas slip-ons. Although he was appropriately dressed for his age, the new hair cut was augmented by his white and black pairing to create an air of youthfulness and subtle magnetism. Frank drew the gaze of a woman as he passed, but he failed to notice. He pulled up to the empty stool next to Dan.

   “You made it. Glad you’re here!” Dan erupted, greeting him heartily.

   “I thought I was a little early,” said Frank.

   “No, I was still here at six-thirty. I just told you seven to make sure you made it,” Dan confessed. Frank shook his head and smiled.

   “What are you having?” Dan asked. “I got this round.”

   “Uh, whatever you’re having.”

   Dan motioned to Tim, “Two more Modelos.”

   The Eastern Conference was on the TV, just as Dan promised. Frank checked the score. It was Philadelphia 38, Washington 31 in the third quarter. Besides the two large-screen TV’s, seating, and overhead lighting, Sullivan’s was pretty much untouched from its original layout. The smoke-stained walls were still there, only the cigarettes were gone. Its architecture was grandfathered in, exempting it from costly remodeling, which, vintage allure aside, could have rectified some of the odd space planning the bar was hobbled with.

   Next to the end of the bar was a stairwell, barely twenty-four inches away from Dan’s seat. A neon sign above the stairwell entrance beaconed, “Restrooms and Billiards.” Waiters would have to be mindful every time they rounded the bar, and Dan would come face-to-face with everyone returning from the bathrooms. It was just one of the many oddities that made Sullivan’s legit.

   Frank and Dan talked and laughed and watched the game. They enjoyed their beers, but Frank never noticed the empty seat next to him, until she entered. She took the form of a five foot, six inch force of nature. Somehow the whole room was aware of her, for her very existence seemed to draw from the elements of water, earth, air, and fire. From her black pixie cut to her multi-layered tank tops to her black Doc Martens, she wasn’t simply a free spirit, she was a movement.

   She stepped deeper into the room and scanned the bar for an open stool. That’s when Frank saw it. The empty seat next to him would surely call out to her. She locked on to the open stool and claimed it as her perch. Frank’s heart began to race, but before he could say anything to Dan, he could feel her aura envelope him and her presence take over.

   Frank and Sondra had a perfectly serviceable marriage. Mutual respect, a good amount of humor, commonality of goals, and shared dreams for the future were hopeful signs that they’d make it to the end. Still, some of the frills afforded by marriage were relegated to the sidelines, and intimacy was few and far between. They got caught up in work and getting two sons into college. However, Frank and Sondra would never blame the other, only themselves. They loved each other too much to point fingers.

   “Hi, I’m Chloe,” came the cheery voice from over Frank’s left shoulder. A hand appeared in his eyeline. He would have to engage her.

   “Hi, I’m Frank and this is Dan,” Frank offered reservedly.

   “Nice to meet you, Frank and Dan. That sounds like a comedy team, or two guys who have a radio program. Are you guys like that? Do you have a show or something?” Chloe persisted.

   “No, no. Not famous,” Dan assured. Frank remained silent and shook his head.

   “So, what are you guys here for?” asked Chloe.

   The strange question made Frank nervous. What am I here for?

   “We’re just here to throw back a few and watch the game,” Frank said, as he turned his attention to the TV.

   The growing comfortableness began generating ideas in Frank’s mind as to how he might discourage her from further interaction. He imaged holding up his ring hand outstretched for her to see, but that could appear highly presumptuous and backfire enormously if she wasn’t coming on to him. He could simply work his wife into the conversation, but that might come off as trying too hard. Frank then thought if he just rolled his ring finger slowly enough on the counter, the overhead LED pin spots might pick up the finish and make his wedding ring gleam.

   “I think Philadelphia is going to beat Washington and wind up playing Atlanta,” said Chloe.

   Frank lightly acknowledged her prediction and went back to the game, desperately trying not to engage her further.

   “Hey, I like your jacket,” Chloe bubbled. “I have four Dickies jackets at home. We have good taste.”

   Chloe began to inspect the cut and fabrication of Frank’s Jacket. She may as well have had X-ray vision for how invasive her eyes felt on him. Frank was not the kind to purchase red convertibles or roaring Hogs to compensate for his midlife slump. Furthermore, the current platonic nature of his relationship with Sondra would never propel him to seek thrills outside of their marriage. One thing was clear, Frank wanted a change, not a fling.

   “And I like your hair on the sides,” Chloe added, as she reached up to touch Frank’s temple.

   Instinctively, Frank recoiled, pulling his head back away from her hand. In the process, he found the top half of his body leaning way off its center of gravity. He instantly tried to correct the imbalance by jerking his chest forward, but the seat of the stool was pulled back by his knees. The stool was now in a free fall, and Frank’s back collided with Dan’s. Frank began to roll over Dan’s back, causing the stool to lift up further, pivoting on one leg. Dan was trapped against the bar and watched helplessly in the mirror as Frank continued to roll over him and toward the stairwell. The stool continued its downward trajectory and deposited Frank on the threshold of the stairwell, but inertia took him the rest of the way. Dan turned and reached for Frank, but Frank had already begun the violent tumble.

   Chloe screamed, Dan stood and yelled out to Frank, and the room was thrown into a hush. Then it was over. There was silence for a second, then the room filled with a cacophony of chatter. Dan rushed down the steps to where Frank lay pinned. The tight dimensions of the stairwell offered one benevolent concession for Frank. He never reached the bottom, but got turned sideways, his body wedged roughly halfway down. Dan frantically called out Frank’s name and checked for signs of life.

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   The mechanical beeping was closer now, as if Frank could reach out and touch its source. He felt himself lifting, not just floating, but rising to a level he knew he needed to reach, like someone on an elevator arriving at their floor. A brightness began to sting his eyes through his eyelids. He heard his own breathing, then flickered open his eyes. He struggled to focus, but quickly found a familiar face and felt her stir by his bed. Sondra was already holding Frank’s hand, and she leaned in closer.

   “Hi, my love. Welcome back,” Sondra said softly, holding back tears.

   “Hi, hon,” breathed Frank.

   Sondra shushed him gently. Her chestnut brown eyes radiated, filling him with a sense of belonging and comfort. Sondra turned her attention to Frank’s hair. She began to reach for the side of his head. Frank wanted her to touch him, he needed her to touch him. She lightly stroked the soft, shorn strands, and greeted him again.

   “Hi, handsome.”