I found myself in a blue mood for no apparent reason one afternoon, but the sounds of bouncing basketballs on the weathered concrete I heard from behind felt like a comforting groove as I sat on a bench looking at traffic streaming up 6th avenue. The overcast day gave a melancholy hue to what was otherwise a pleasant day. I watched a tall young lady with sunglasses bigger than her face and wearing a short tennis skirt make her way from Houston street and marveled for just a second on the confidence of her strut. She moved like a runway model heading solo to a battle against an unknown army, but before my people watching imagination could scribe a mini narrative about this attractive stranger I was interrupted by a fellow taking a seat. The grunts he bellowed signaled pained and discomfort as he politely asked for a dollar.
My willingness to give when confronted with a panhandler or street beggar is often dictated either by my mood or resources and this man’s friendly and polite tone, and me having a single dollar readily available in my pocket was a perfect match. The man spoke about just getting out of the hospital and being on so much pain medication that he could barely function, and without revealing the source of his current affliction he then revealed that he was an alcoholic, and now I found myself suddenly baptized by the streets of New York as priest hearing the confession of a troubled man. He then spoke of wanting to stop drinking and having many friends in rehab and mentioned he was going to start going to Alcoholics Anonymous, but before that he needed a haircut, and that made sense to me.
If I was going to begin a new chapter of life or embark on a new endeavor getting a haircut would seem like the first logical step. I would want to hear that baby like roar a clipper makes as it approaches follicles as prey. I would want to sit in a barber’s chair that offers infinite possibilities with each swivel. Haircuts when done right are just not a creation or establishment of style, they can be a cleansing, washing away old troubles, and they can also be a promise to oneself to expect a better tomorrow because no one needs to look good for yesterday.
Now haircuts when they are done wrong can feel world destroying. When I was five years old my mother took me to a downtown barbershop with implicit instructions to the elderly barber to just cut it a little short, however minutes later this overzealous hair shaving fiend left me bald. My mother was angry and I was horrified. There I was, a baby Kojak with no lollipop, Jordan but with no air. Later that day at my grandma’s house I looked back at the reflection from her giant bedroom mirror to see the monster I had become. How could I go on? I tried on my step-grandfather’s flat cap, which hung oversize on my head like a flying saucer over skyscraper, I even put on my grandma’s flowing wig for a second, but Times Square street pimp was a look only few adolescents could pull off.
My life was completely ruined for at least few days, but then my hair start growing back. however, that event would remain a powerful memory,but as a teen and then adult, haircuts always made me feel more confident ready for whatever was next. Me and the man on the bench chatted a few more idle minutes before he thanked me for the dollar and then departed. I don’t know if he got that haircut or got the treatment he needed but I like to imagine that he walked into an AA meeting looking fresh and already halfway to be being clean.
Reconstructive Aperture 