Barbershop

While eating a snack in the Turkish pastry shop, D- pointed across the street and pointed out the barber's spinning pole. "What's the blue and red?" he asked. I told him it was for cutting hair. "Oh, a barber," he answered. "How do you know that word?" "Oh," he suddenly seemed blase, "from Mexico."

Really?

On the way home he insisted on going across to the barber shop. He wanted a haircut. Now understand, D- gets 'home haircuts', that is I chase him around the house with a pair of scissors, or surreptitiously snip while he drinks milk or watches a video. His haircuts are crooked, awkward but made with love. The reason is that the one time I took him to a hair salon, when he was two or so, he screamed and shook his head like a dog with fleas the whole way through, the stylist grit her teeth and snipped madly, and I cringed and wrung my hands. Not worth the hassle.

But now? Now, he wants a haircut? I am not one to pass up an opportunity when it is offered on a platter. We went into the barber shop, the local Greek place, with two old guys sitting in the back.

"Do you cut children's hair?"
"Is he a boy?"
"Uh, yes."

The barber, who reminded me of my grandfather with smoothly groomed hair and hands that were clean and strong, then set about to seduce D-. He got him up into the chair and kept up the chatter while he put on the smock and got the clippers ready. D- sat very still. He looked very very serious. As the haircut progressed, D- seemed closer and closer to tears. When the barber finished, D- looked at me and burst out crying. He said he had gotten scared and that he wanted his hair back.

Now D- looks like a little boy from the 1950s, his ears suddenly visible, a neat buzz cut framing his large brown eyes. I can't stop running my hand along the spiky edges. His hair smells like aftershave and my Zaide. I will never be able to join the ritual of a barbershop but D- allows me a glimpse. He's beautiful.