Act 1, Scene 4: "The Haircut"

TRL needs a haircut. Badly. Most of the world would not necessarily see this, as TRL is hair challenged, follicle destimulatd. He is fine with this. Over the monoxadil, over the scalp rubbing to increase blood flow, definitely over the dermatologist injections of some growth factor directly into his scalp. Because it just doesn’t matter. He is one handsome devil, with or without hair, tall and sinewy, lovely to behold. And he has already landed the beautiful wife, so what’s the point of hair? There are hats to provide warmth in the winter, and hats to provide shade in the summer. That rest is all savings on shampoo.

But a good haircut he still needs. To clean things up, to make him look his best. So he can feel fast and sleek, like a dolphin speeding through the water. TRL paid $8 in the West Village, and it took 8 minutes. The Russian cutting his hair said hi and bye and TRL liked that. In San Francisco’s Castro it cost $35 and took 20 minutes. A good haircut but too much chit chat with D, his gay hair guy. A short stint in Boston cost $30 for a fine haircut on Newberry Street. But too many old people and R the hairdresser, a 40-something aging hotty, definitely asked too many questions. A haircut, TRL believes, is quiet time, reflective time, a massage for the head and hair and mind. Lose lips sink a positive experience.

Well, in TRL’s suburban town, there was the thankful absence of Short Cuts or Super Cuts or Shear Delight or any other annoying franchise where everybody was cheery and had cutesy fake names and was trying to lure you into higher priced add-on hair treatments. In ST, there was Bob’s Haircuts and Frank’s Haircuts. They were across from each other on the rotary, both one-man shops. TRL walks to Bob’s. Very Norman Rockwell. Barber Shop pole and American flag outside, 30 year-old photos of clients inside. Bob is cheerful and tall and skinny, sports a pomaded hairstyle, has a scissor in his hand and is slicing hair from a 20-something. But the thing is, it’s already looking like a bad haircut, and the 20-something is still smiling. TRL smiles and backs out. Over to Frank’s.

Frank is cutting the hair of a four-year old. And there are ten thousand photos of haircuted kids on the wall.

You do adults? TRL inquires.

Sure, why wouldn’t you think so? Frank replies. He is short, close-cropped blondish hair, a half smile and weird energy, a kind of manic pixy with scissors, a dangerous combination.

How much?

Thirty bucks.

Thirty bucks? TRL asks. This is ST, afterall.

Hah hah hah. Just kidding. Fourteen bucks.

OK.

TRL sits and thumbs a People. The haircut experience begins.

Five minutes later: ready.

TRL looks up. The four year old is finished, sucking on a lollipop and half way out the door with his mom. TRL steps up.

How short?

Short.

What number do you usually use? Frank asks. He was asking about the length of the razor.
One and quarter on the sides, a bit longer on the top, TRL replies, an experienced hand at these things.

Well, blade number doesn’t mean anything, every model is different, Frank replies. He then raises a heavy black razor, something that looks more like a sheep shearer than one to be used to sculpt the head of a human.

This here is the Wahl Pro 8500x, the best one on the market. I blow through one of these a year.

TRL nods appreciatively. Always agree with the man holding the razor.

Frank bears down on TRL’s scalp.

I’ve been doing this for 45 years.

TRL restrains himself from nodding, least he create a reverse mohawk. Oh, he replies.

Yup, been in the same place for 45 years. I love it. I started out cutting hair, then went into the Army. I was an Army barber.

Excellent, TRL replies. And he meant it. His short haircut style was quasi-army issue, just the way he liked it, sort of NYC sleek gym-handsome-athletic guy meets strong and steely Army Ranger, as TRL liked to think of it, and here was a professional doing the job. Made him feel like Treat Williams in the movie Hair.

I’m now the official barber of the Massachusetts State Troopers. I cut all of the new recruits’ hair.

TRL is even more impressed, and feeling privileged. How long does that take?

A full day. I get there in the morning, cut hair, sleep over, then in the morning I get a police escort home on the highway so I can get here in time to open up. Four times a year. Everybody gets the same haircut. Short. Frank laughs.

Even the women?No, they get shoulder length. It doesn’t make any sense to me. They should get the same haircut as the guys. I don’t know how to cut women’s hair. Some of the guys try and tell me how they want their hair cut, but then a sergeant makes them drop and do push ups. They aren’t supposed to talk to me. They get one style. Short. But then once they’re back in the seat their heads are all sweaty and it makes giving them a haircut difficult, so I spoke to the commander, I didn’t say any names of sergeants, just that I couldn’t cut with the heads sweaty. So no more push ups. They are just told not to talk, to get their haircut.

Frank whips the plastic gown off of TRL. Finished.
The fastest haircut TRL ever got, and he didn’t even realize it was being cut. He looks in the mirror. Perfect.

Thanks, Frank.

Should he tip, he wonders as he gets out his wallet. You’re not supposed to tip owners. But he looks at the check left by the four year-old’s mom and it’s for $15. So he hands Frank a ten and a five. Thanks.

My pleasure. Come back.

Oh, I will, TRL says, and heads out the door while rubbing his hand up the back of his head, the thrill of feeling the short hair stimulate his scalp one of life’s supreme pleasures.