The Haircut

Montgomery Steppes walked into work today innocent. Before he’d taken a seat Boss stood over him in his cubicle. “Take a seat,” the man said.
“What could this be?” wondered Monty. Boss wrung his hands. Appeared nervous. Monty briefcase next to his desk as every day for the last fifteen years. Turned on his computer reflexively. Assumed Boss had a list of new projects, or wanted to discuss money again, or desired to badmouth one of Monty’s colleagues.
“We need to talk.”
“Okay?” and it was a question. “What’s happening?”
“Um, I think it’s a good time for you to leave.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re not performing. You’re not happy here any longer.”
While this might be true, Monty didn’t feel his performance had been lagging. “Oh, come now.”
“It’s true. Every day I look at you. You don’t like it here anymore. You even refused to make that call last week,”
“You mean to Linda at Binder’s Books?”
“Exactly.”
“Um, I told you I’d called her nine times, left voice mails, sent emails, talked to some of her subordinates, organized the transfer. Nothing more I could do. Calling again would have been a waste of time.”
“Still, you refused to do what I’d asked.”
“Well, aren’t you going to give me notice?” Monty’s mind reeling. He’d never been unemployed before; never considered the dole; already see wife’s reaction. She’ll be home at six after a hard day at her own job. He played with his hair. Remembered he had a haircut at five with Sonny. Looked at his watch: nine-thirty in the morning.
“No, I’m not. I thought about it. But then I realized I couldn’t look at you anymore. I’ll pay you for two weeks. You can apply for unemployment insurance. I want you to clear out your cubicle.”
“It’ll take all day. I have to deal with my files on the computer.”
“I’ll have Tim take care of it for you. . . I . . .”
“I’d like to do it myself, thank you.” Monty’s pulse racing. Face flushed. He was angry. He desired to shout, scream, employ penetrating curse words. Wife’s voice echoed inside his brain: “You’ll need a reference, Mont.”
“Jesus, Christ, this is sudden. Whatever happened to a notice?”
“Employment-at-will, buddy. And I’ve lost my will. Can’t stand the sight of you.”
“But nothing has changed with my work. Fifteen fucking years. For some reason you’re looking at me differently. You must have received some bad news. Are you going bankrupt?”
“None of your business. We’re doing fine. Just need you to pack your things. Be gone by the end of the day. It’s for the best. You’ve always wanted something different. You said so yourself at the Christmas lunch. Now’s your chance.”
“What am I going to tell my wife?”
“That’s not my problem.”
“I don’t think you’re handling this well at all.”
“I’m sorry. . . it has to be this way. I really can’t stomach the sight of you. I’ll pay you two weeks and give you a decent recommendation. You’ll find another job.”
Boss knocked his knuckles together. Looked at Monty as if he expected to be understood. He turned and walked back to his office. The phone rang and immediately he was laughing with a client.
Monty couldn’t believe the turn of his reality. Attempted to fit pieces together. He was struggling. Began to email friends, colleagues and clients. He trashed after saving to a thumb drive all incriminating files, were he to be investigated, were he to become famous then archivists would go through his incredible work machine and find all this stuff: porn sites, nude photographs, letters to others calling his boss an asshole, hours and hours of personal work that had nothing to do with his job. He erased everything on the computer, threw papers away, tossed a rolodex.
Then, he figured it out: it was the dinner celebration with the boss and his wife and his wife’s first son. Monty had asked, through the natural course of conversation, who the boy’s father was. “You don’t want to know,” she said. Table grew quiet. Restaurant noises. Fear and dread. Kitchen clanging; smoke from the grill. But that wasn’t it; not ill-placed question. It was the second bottle of wine when he asked his boss why he stuck with the business when it was breaking his back.
During desert, prompted by the wife anyhow, Monty had gone, “Tell me, why, when you could be sitting on your oceanfront property sanding your boat, your wife has a great job and you’re already made, would you stick with this business that’s losing money year after year? When your life could be so, ah, cush? Why coax along this disabled baby?”
Perhaps disabled wasn’t the proper word to use, ol’ Mont. Should have known better. He would argue in his defense, that he’d assumed they were friends (evidence the intimate dinner with the wife) and all topics open for consideration. Especially the tiny matter of the money-losing sieve that was the publishing company. Monty pulled on his chin, waiting for downloading files. He read an email sent to a friend in New York. “Oh my,” he wondered, “Did boss see this?” In the email he’d claimed, without straying from honest matters, that the “books were mediocre anyhow.” Did he see the email? Had he been snooping? Company have keystroke monitors?
Boss got off the phone and stepped into the main room again. “How’s it going?” he asked Monty.
“I really don’t think you handled this well,” he said.
“Look, it was time. You wanted to go. It was your body language. Written all over you. You hate this place. You said so yourself, at dinner.”
Ah ha! So that was it. Boss had been hurt. Maybe even humiliated. He’d taken silent offense. Now exacting revenge. He wanted to break up. His smile quickly faded. Unemployed. And his wife. What would she say? He touched his hair again, considering his appointment with Sonny the Hairdresser, his shop down the avenue. “She’s going to bust my balls,” he thought. “Christ, I’m too old to get another job.” He cleared the History and the Cache, and dumped a nude photograph of that one. Still wearing his jacket. Grabbed his files, briefcase, and stepped to the café where large men play chess every day. Monty sat near the tile wall and killed time. He did not call his wife. Did call to leave a message on the machine, reminding her of his appointment.

I know what you’re thinking; it’s unavoidable, really: But Sonny the Hairstylist is not gay. He drives a Harley. Owns a vintage Alfa Romeo convertible and talks about cylinders and horsepower and carburetors. He races go-carts. Wears sunglasses and baseball caps. He’s a “look at the rack on her” kind of guy. In pencil, in his appointment book, he’d written Montgomery for five o’clock.
Sonny the night before had a hard time of it. He was seeing a married woman named Jo. Jo had a kid from one marriage and a kid with her current husband. She wears flowery dresses and drives a Honda. She might look like a middle school teacher, were you to guess. Sonny felt guilty about fucking this mother of two. Sonny married three times already. His daughter out of high school and enrolled at Cal Arts. Designs on being a painter.
Sonny came of age in the Seventies. Wore hair to his shoulders and listened to the Stones on acid. JJ Cale live before people knew what what. He wore too-tight Van Halen rock T-shirts. Drank Guinness and smoked joints. Now he’s kind of the same, but without the hair. Now he’s responsible, hanging in there.
The night before Monty was placed on waivers Sonny had engaged a broad-ranging fight with Jo. She cursed. But most impressively she spit on his shag carpet. A stereophile with an amp from 1981, large speakers: not sleek, not flat, not hidden underneath end-tables. Big fucking speakers like a stereophile rock guy hair to his shoulders. Van Halen baseball jersey: you must know, the white chest, insignia and red sleeves. Too tight. Skinny man. She spit on his shag, man! Then Jo threatened to tell her husband everything. Sonny didn’t think it was a good idea. And this had nothing to do with the fact that Jo’s husband was huge and mean. Sonny said it was time he stopped “giving her haircuts.” You know what that means.
Jo flipped out. She called him names. Said he was a lousy lay. Then she spit again before crying. He tried to be nice during tears on the white leather couch. But found sincerity difficult. He wanted her to leave. She stood and said, “You don’t know how to go down on a woman.” He didn’t know what to say. She began collecting her things. “And you never made me cum.”
Sonny feeling miserable. After she’d slammed the door a foreboding. As if a voice said, “This is what it’s like Mr. Three Wives Mr. Fifty-Five Years Old Mr. Barely Scraping By.” Sonny attempted solace in old tunes. Feet on the coffee table felt no comfort. He stared deep and hard at the trail of his life. He yearned for some solidity, a foundation of strength or hope, even temporary would do. He turned to a photograph of his daughter. She was smiling. Her hair done up Big Hair by her father the stylist. The artiste, he corrected me. Seeing her did not help him deal with his night.

Monty sat with his back against the tile wall and watched ants swarm food scraps on a plate on a red plastic tray at the table next to him. Two bearded drunks organized chess pieces on a table. All women are beautiful walked by with paper cup of coffee, medium. Monty didn’t know what was going on in the new baseball season. Didn’t know where we were in the NHL or NBA playoffs. May heading to Summer. He thought about the unemployment application. Friend of his had, during the dot com days, other side of bust. Friend said, “Just have to tell them you’re looking for work. Nobody checks.” Monty imagined his lies on the back of the form, write the job interview you located, the specific business, the actual person, time of day. Monty, watching ants, thinking, nervous about telling a lie. Heard his wife: “Oh, I’ve got a novel idea . . . Oh, look at me go: Why don’t you actually get a job?” Say that and more.
Monty watched ants swarm and realized his fingers were busy with the seam of his pants. He flicked pants with fingernails. Thought, “Hummina hummina hummina,” pretended prayer beads. Then answered the notion with another: “Hey, wait, am I nervous? I shouldn’t be plucking pant. Not very zen.” He looked at the bearded drunks to see whether they’d noticed. They stared downward hard at the board.
Monty envisioned a scene. He saw the laborer in purple polo shirt approach the table of ants. Employee scraped food and crap into a black plastic garbage bag. He’d bring the plate and red plastic tray inside. Walk down the slim alleyway toward the back and deposit the day’s trash. At some point, one early morning, licensed to make all the noise in the known world, a garbage truck would arrive. The trucks parked near the airport. That’s where the fleet parks for the lonely night. That loud and boisterous morning, man with gloves would jump out and deal with a few of the smaller bins. Then he’d hitch large steel prongs to the dumpster, fitting transformer arms into small slots, and he’d lift the refuse and dump it behind him, over his head, all nonchalant, early as hell in the morning. Trash and a thousand ants churned through the masher and through the day to find themselves at the landfill many miles away. Monty thought, “Hey, what happens to the ants severed from their tribe? Their queen lying around laying eggs, dealing with aphid juice, the jism nectar of life, man, and these thousand ants are simply lifted away. What happens to them?” Disappearance need not be registered.
Monty transfixed by the difficulties presented in the question. He wondered, “Do they party in the dump, gorging, shouting ‘Free at last, bros! Free at motherfucking last!’ Or, do they organize recon mission and ultimately, quite incredibly, find their way home to the lost tribe, to their queen?” Though he’d informed himself not to do it, Monty continued picking seam pant. Briefcase next to his legs, down by the tiles. “Are they adopted by the local anthill, colony of the moment, never missing a beat? Antennae flicker and then, ‘Okay, here’s what we need you to do.’?” Monty concerned about separated ants. Suppressed an impulse to beat purple Izod to the red plastic tray start scraping ants to the ground. “Stay where you belong,” sagely counsel.
Monty didn’t think of consulting E.O. Wilson. Relegated mulling to one of those unsolved mysteries that make life so damn interesting. Right? He thought, “Like a Fellini movie.” Appropriately, he wondered whether that had any relevance to his time and setting. Time, yes, Monty looked at his watch. Five o’clock! He stood in a hurry and long strides down the avenue to Sonny’s. He stopped after five brilliant paces and turned to fetch his briefcase in the penumbra about his ankles. He spotted chess pieces as he made moves one way then the other.
Monty walked swiftly and began to sweat. He arrived at Sonny’s at 5:07. Not bad. But not as good as working next door. Unemployment’s going to be tricky.
“Hey, Monty.” Lowered glamour magazine to his lap. Baseball cap and sunglasses.
“Hey, Sonny.” It was quick, the thinking, and they didn’t necessarily lodge anywhere permanently, but Monty wondered whether Sonny wasn’t just a little too macho, what with the car, cylinders-speak and shades. Perhaps he’s covering up, voice threw at Monty, either reject or absorb. Monty didn’t have time for these deliberations. Sonny added quickly, “Aw, man, I’m going to need a beer before we cut your hair.”
Monty thought this was a good idea. Real men supposed to hit the local bar after a working day. And real men definitely compelled to hit the same bar after being let go, sent packing, placed on waivers, laid off, asked to step outside, bid adieu, tossed, canned, sacked. Besides, and a grand besides, he and Sonny for three years said, each and every time, for three years backslapping the tone said, “Hey, you know, we should get together sometime, I don’t know (they didn’t know), for black and tans and whiskey.” Pieces seemed to fit on this particular evening. And it was early.
“Sounds like a great idea,” Monty said. “Let’s do it.”
“Right.” Sonny flipped the magazine with the pretty people to the table, among salon staple others, and jumped to his feet.
“May I leave this here?” Monty asked, holding his black leather briefcase.
“But of course,” Sonny said, and it was all fake, the affectations. Sonny hit the lights and locked the door. They walked down the street. Crossed in front of the motorcycle club’s garage where they meet ominously once a month. They stepped inside the bar. Monty took great care to walk in first without stopping to hold open the door for Sonny.
They chose a place at the end of bar, two stools betting machine. Sonny, with a practiced move, spun the face of the machine away, it pivoted and faced the wall.
“Hey, Danny,” Sonny called out.
“Hey there, Sonny,” cried the bartender, tattoos on both arms and ankles above his sneaks. Wallet attached to a chain. “Black and tan?” Danny asked.
“Absolutely,” said Sonny.
Danny looked at Monty with raised eyebrows. “Same.” He’d been sitting all day, first in front of his computer to ditch infamous stuff, material bring regimes to their knees, and then at the café with the tiled wall and bearded chess blokes. All day and his back was sore. He neglected to contemplate dinner. He turned and stretched a few times. His spine creaked.
The beers arrived and they toasted. Clink. Ahh. Two smacked their lips. Conversation flowed naturally. Seven televisions various arrangements. Within five minutes they were talking about pussy. Sonny was all fuck this and fuck that and that guy’s a pussy, and, yes, look at the rack on her holy shit. The woman with the rack was talking to a geeky college kid in glasses about a recent movie. Barstool between the lad and the lady. “As long as the barstool’s between them he’ll never get anywhere” Sonny said. He whistled again: “Whew, will you look that on her?”
Monty looked over. Blonde slightly overweight arched her back and Monty stared. Another sip of the smooth beer. “Shit! Godammit,” Sonny said. “The Sharks better win this. They were up three games.”
Monty acquainted himself with the playoffs. Sonny wanted to talk about the rack and hockey. Monty wondered if much of this – cursing and three quick beers and hockey and rack – weren’t an effort to conceal. No, that’s not it: not conceal something, make up for something, show the world that, Hey, I am not a gay hairdresser. Monty made sure they weren’t sitting too close to one another. False construals by real men down the length of the bar, shouting at the TVs, calling Danny’s name, biker tattoos.
A’s game on one TV, Sharks on three, NBA with Minnesota on the rest, just starting up. Sonny ordered a fourth beer. Monty found himself following. “Shit, I’ve got to get fucked up,” Sonny said. Then he laughed. Man with a club foot came over and shot the shit about last night. “Ooh, boy, last night was something, huh?” Sonny agreed. “What time did you eventually get out of here?” Sonny told him. “Ooh, boy, it was a mess here for a while.”

Sonny mentioned he finally went home to be with a woman. Didn’t turn out too hot. Monty asked why. Started talking about pussy again. Monty turned his shoulder to the club footed guy because he wanted the guy and his mouth to leave. The guy said, through the side of his mouth with yellow teeth, “Whew, well . . . I’d better get going. Don’t want to get caught in that again. Ha ha.” He and Sonny laughed. Monty watched rack walk away on the sidewalk. The guy turned and removed himself from the bar.
Talk of the movie talk trickled from the college kid with his sideburns and glasses over the bar and engaged Danny. They argued about the last fight scene. Monty didn’t want to tell them what he thought. It was six thirty. Haircut supposed to be five. No, he wasn’t fidgety or nervous or anything like that. He just noticed, is all.
Bearded man in black motorcycle leathers sat down at the bar. He ordered a beer. He set his helmet on the neighboring barstool. Didn’t say anything to anyone. After his beer, he gathered his helmet and left. He started his bike, there near the curb, and fired into action. Japanese motorcycle, Suzuki Monty thought.
Sonny chuckled.
“What?”
“Sounds like a sewing machine.” Sonny laughed again.
“What does?”
“Big guy on his sewing machine, about to tear into traffic. Whoo.”
“Should it be a Harley?”
“I’m just saying. It sounds like a sewing machine.”
Monty turned and watched the man his motorbike leathers and orange helmet tear away from the curb and make the light. It was a Suzuki. Sonny laughed again.

“Oh, man,” Sonny said after the fifth beer. “I don’t know if we can get to your hair tonight.”
Monty was quick, which kind of surprised him. “We have to. It’s Mother’s Day on Sunday. Supposed to be my Mother’s Day Haircut. I’m counting on you, man.” Sonny looked at him, then back to his glass.
“Well, in that case, I need a whisky . . . Danny!” Tattoos looked over. The Sharks scored and the bar cheered.
“You can do it,” Monty said. “It’s all about focus. . . focus, that’s it. Like a great task. You’re an artist, man. You can do it drunk. I’ll take a drunk haircut.”
“We’ll see. I’m on Vicodin. Feeling a little wobbly.”
“Focus. That’s all it is. Like a great athlete.” It was seven o’clock. Seven thirty. Monty getting close, but wasn’t there yet: still had time before he had to call his wife.
“Can you drive?” Sonny asked Monty.
“Yeah.”
“Good, ‘cause I can’t.”
“We’re we going?”
“We need to make a run?”
“A run?”
“Yeah, a run.”
Monty who tries to ride somebody’s else’s flow. Doesn’t ask too many questions. Hair salon’s right there, across the street, and you want to make a run? Fine. This is a special occasion. Monty, don’t ruin the special occasion. You’ll never have to do it again. Besides, you consider yourself adventurous. Any adventurer worth his salt makes a run, wife at home, simple and small haircut be damned. Let go, man, here in the now, like A-Rod coming out of his slump.

Monty glanced and saw the A’s beating the Yankees. Mumbai, Madagascar, Sri Lanka, the Himalaya, cigarette cafes in Arizona or the Deep South, grits, sail around the world, you know . . . a man of action and a life at sea. Heroism, Monty thinking. Self-mythology, building up our simple lives, living strong and proud. Photographer on his knees on a dusty street in a warzone, come on Monty, you can make one simple little run on the day you’ve been expelled from your money-making gig. Be a man. Stand tall. Don’t call the fucking wife! A lion! Roaring down the street, chest puff, drive fast, walk tall, masculine revolt. Take some risks. Start a business, Monty, do what you’ve always dreamed of doing. Hitchhike across America, leave domestication behind. Edge exists, Monty, that edge you’ve always wanted.
“Hell yah!” Sonny shouted. The men at the bar craning their necks into the bamboozle oblivion. The Sharks – real men, collected, fast on skates, powerful, living the adventure – scored again and seemed to have this deciding game in hand.
“The next round, baybee. Hell yah!” Sonny yelled to a comrade. “Bring on Calgary!” the other man shouted. Monty winced at the openmouthed, drunken grotesqueries.
“Let’s get another drink,” Sonny said.
“Nah, let’s make this run. We’ve got to keep a tight schedule.”
Sonny stood up and shouted to some of his mates, “Boys, I’ve got one more haircut today.”
“Oooh, man, who’s the lucky somebich,” shouted back.
“Ol’ Montgomery here.” Monty waved sheepishly, yep, I’m the one.
“Let’s go,” and Sonny started to walk. Outside they crossed the street, in front of the flower shop and gas station. The gas station the place where local cops wash their cars. The flower shop the place where families buy flowers for the recently dead. They walked and passed Sonny’s shop. Monty looked inside, wondering at the empty chair and the passage of time. They rounded the corner to a parking lot. They walked to the far corner and approached a small convertible Alfa Romeo. Sonny ripped off statistics, 1973, this and that under the hood, love this thing, and Monty understood less than ten percent. He nodded approvingly, accepted the keys, and jumped into the black interior.

Monty a tall lanky guy who hasn’t run – that’s the physical act of running – in fifteen years. Keeps his hair short and neat and shaves. Khakis well-worn and an observer doesn’t have to work that hard to see the lanky legs fold. These legs he jammed on either side of the steering wheel. Right knee squeezed between the steering wheel and gearshift. Monty ground reverse and Sonny winced. Sonny baseball hat and shades. Luckily for Monty the lot was empty. He swung the car in reverse then he ground first gear. Hadn’t driven stick in a while. He puttered into the avenue, entered traffic slowly, and drove left and right upon Sonny’s directives. He got the hang of shifting around his knee. The next day Monty bruised on the inside of his right knee. He never shifted out of third. They drove in this small convertible Alfa Romeo, color red, to the bar they call The Graduate, on the corner of College and Claremont. Monty, of course, had never been inside The Graduate.
Though he’d seen it a thousand times in transit, from home to his favorite clot of bookstores, dinner date with couples, burrito with his wife. His wife! Monty looked at his watch. He slammed the car door. They’d parked in the bank’s lot.

They entered the bar and tender shouted “Sonny!” and there were halloos with others and the bartender and Sonny shook hands. They sat at the bar. There were two televisions, one in each corner. Jukebox playing a funk tune. The Sharks won and again Monty heard someone say Bring on Calgary. Okay, Monty wasn’t exactly nervous; you couldn’t call him that; but nor could you say he was comfortable. Hid nerves well and answered “Scotch” when Sonny asked. Which? “Oban,” he said, without looking at the mirror rack.
A deeply middle-aged Irish woman with red short hair and sagging skin, skin of a drinker and a smoker, in her full incorruptible accent, leaned over and asked Monty, “So, an what do yew do there, fallah?”
Monty thought for a moment. “Well, I’m unemployed.”
“Good fer yew, then, my friend.” The woman hovered hesitatingly on her stool. She swiveled. Sonny disappeared into a back room. He’d gone with a tall, thin woman. Monty followed them with his eyes. He fended himself well against committing to conversation with the Irish woman: he managed this with curt answers and eyes on the now-playoff basketball game. Minnesota looked good but they would lose.
Sonny returned and took a stool to Monty’s left. The Irish lady leaned over and asked Sonny, “So, what do yew do, then, you handsome lad?”
“Me?”
“Yeh, I’m talkin’ to you now, aren---t I?”
“I’m a hairdresser,” Sonny answered, fingers pointing to himself.
“Bloody ‘ell, then. Look at my ‘air, willya.” She leaned over. She ran her fingers through her hair.
“You could use a haircut,” Sonny said.
“I was thinkin’ the same, there. How much ya chaarrgin, there?”
“Simple haircut is fifty-five dollars.”
“What? I can get my haircut for half that.” The woman leaned away this time; she took a sip.
“Well, I’m an artist,” Sonny said. Monty corroborated. “He is.”
“Does ee do yer ‘air, then?” She pointed at Monty.
“Um, yes, he does.”
“Well, yer ‘air is a bloody mess.”
“It’s my style. Like an English schoolboy.”
“Bloody ‘ell. . . it’s a mess thass what it is.”
Sonny chimed in: “Yup, we’re about to go give him an English schoolboy for Mother’s Day.”
“Aye. Me mother’s dead, she is,” the woman said. She stared into her drink. Monty could tell Sonny desired to terminate this conversation. This was good with Monty. But he waited for Sonny’s lead.
The tall, thin lady slithered up to Sonny. She put her arms around him. Sonny introduced them: “Sondre, meet Monty, Monty, meet Sondre.”
“Hello,” and Monty held out his hand. With luscious, full, raspberry red lips this woman batted her eyelashes, leaned forward, showing cleavage, and she kissed the back of Monty’s hand. Left an impressive set of lipstick lips. He smiled.
“You’re a very handsome man,” she hissed. Then smiled. Then licked her lips. She was wearing a large, tan leather hat with a button in its center, like a singer in Funkadelic. A blouse that was, ah, tied in the back with two strings. It was like a half shirt. She was not wearing a bra. Actual breast through the side of the half shirt. Her pants were tight, striped, and exhibited for any interested party all manner of crevice and fold. She hissed again and kissed Sonny on his cheek. “You have a verry niicce friend,” she whispered to Sonny.
“Yeah, he’s a good guy. I’m about to do his hair.”

Sondre winked and said, “Ooh, lucky you.” Then she licked her thick lips again. Being on-purpose damn.
Monty had no idea what was going on. He’d merely followed Sonny on this “run” thinking they were going to his apartment, maybe, just maybe, in order to pick up a joint or some hair product. When they’d approached The Graduate, Monty assumed, as an adventurer, that Sonny lived above the place in a hip little flat. In possession of no idea whatever, he said “Yes,” when the bartender asked him if he’d like another. Sonny agreed as well, pulled out his wallet, flipped through a sweet, thick pile of bills, and slipped money to the bar. The Irish lady had stopped speaking to them as soon as Sondre approached. Games on TV inconsequential. Monty was trashed and, very serious for him, hadn’t eaten dinner.
“Okay, I’ve got my stimulants. Let’s do this haircut.” Sonny’s tall, thin, sexy-lipped contact slipped away and sat at a table with four others. Sonny and Monty walked out to the street, rounded the corner and found the small Alfa in the bank’s parking lot. Going along and not asking questions, Monty assumed anything’s possible. When he asked “Where to?” and directions given, he had no idea they were turning through the city’s streets back to the avenue.

They zipped along nighttime streets and pulled easily to the curb in front of the salon. Monty, because he wasn’t asking questions, was relieved as soon as he figured. It was a sigh. He thanked his personal god, the god of all great adventurers. He was too drunk to notice anymore that he hadn’t eaten. Sonny opened the doors to the shop. He pulled something from his jacket pocket. It was a small, folded sheet of paper.

“Here we go,” Sonny brightened up the room. Monty had to a pee. He asked. Sonny pointed, through a door and into an exercise club called Inside Out, where you can yoga, work on your core, engage boom-boom step aerobics, lift weights, spin, towel off, read while you work it. Monty returned to the salon. Sonny bent over a counter. He slipped and diced the spilled cocaine into two distinct lines. He pressed a twenty dollar bill, flat, to prepare it, get the lumps out. He rolled the twenty dollar bill and handed it to Monty. Monty thought of his wife at home. He hadn’t done lines in years, since his friend Matthew puked into a large trash bin and his brother Paul talked incessantly about “film.” Monty kept watching his brother’s lips as Paul formed the word film, over and again. “Film.” Monty, now with Sonny, worried about his heart. He heard his doctor: “Well, we took your blood samples for potassium and cholestero. We couldn’t help but notice the cocaine in your system. . . Monty, do we need to talk? You know your heart. Cut you off from coffee for a reason.” Monty desperate to be the adventurer. The stories he’d shared with Sonny, in the chair many times before, notions of self, caution to the wind, fear be damned, a little Hunter S. never hurt nobody. Right, Monty?
Monty affected old pro when he snatched the rolled twenty. Leaned over the two lines on the counter. Sonny a CD into the system and modulated the equalizer. Billy Idol, of all the blokes in the world, proceeded to pump “White Wedding” full volume. Sonny offered his client some white wine. “Sure,” Monty said, It’s a nice day. . . for a . . white wedding. Come on! Monty leaned over his line and, quickly, slid a quarter of it into Sonny’s. He readjusted the two lines on the counter. He wondered if he’d remember how to do it. He pressed his inactive nostril like in a movie. He snorted. His deviated septum impeded the maneuver. He snorted again, this time more vigorously. The cocaine went shoop, up the twenty dollar bill and into his nose. It burned. . . rather tingled. Monty stood tall and rubbed his nose. He handed Sonny the money straw and walked rapidly around the salon. He spotted a cover of Glamour. He looked quickly inside, then as quickly set the magazine down on the table. He paced. Rubbed his nose again. Looked at his watch. Took a seat in the appropriate chair and waited. Sonny tooted and tooted again. He made some form of verbal exclamation, like a whoop. He turned up the volume. It’s a nice day to. . . start again. Did he wear his sunglasses at night?
“Lemme take a look at you,” Sonny announced. eyeballed Monty’s head. He whooped again, spun and snapped his fingers. He manufactured a pipe from hair-coloring tinfoil, loaded it with marijuana, and began puffing away. He handed the bowl to Monty. When in Rome-ing, Monty obliged. He inhaled deeply. Been living clean because of his heart. Paranoia; overt worry; negative vibes; bad trips; voices in his head; palpitations; lazy eye; psychosis; hacking cough, load a bong hit, dude; cops round the corner; drug tests at the office; ev-il; they’re watching you; gateway; wait, this is bothering me, this; I’m not a pothead, Ma; if it’s bothering you, girlfriend said, like a genius, like an Einstein really, then stop doing it. Now, in the appropriate chair, he inhaled deeply and didn’t fake it, not like a former president or rooftop party at a friend’s. “Sure,” Monty said to the girl passing the bowl. Drew into his mouth and exhaled nice and easy. To be a good sport; one of the gang; lend his vibe to the situation; get the adventure story right and proper.
The tunes continued to spin and Sonny pointed toward the low chair near the sinks. Monty engaged deep breathing exercises. In order to maintain. He sat down in front of the sink and leaned back, as directed. “Now I can give a fucking haircut,” Sonny said. He guffawed nasally. He ran the water, felt it with his hand until it was just so. He washed Monty’s hair. Monty stared at the ceiling.
Mid-wash Sonny couldn’t stand something any more; he walked to the stereo and changed to John Cale. Live in various clubs.
“This shit kicks ass,” Sonny shouted. He inhaled again. Snorted again, leaning over the counter. Finished the wash and directed Monty to the chair in front of the mirrors.
“Oh, man, you can’t sit and stare at yourself, man.” He laughed. Turned, spun, and fetched a pair of sunglasses. Now Monty’s looking in the mirrors, wet hair, wearing shades, stoked on drugs, tunes blaring. He smiled. For some reason, unlike many other times, he didn’t feel fear. His smile broadened. He began speaking percussively about how much he loved John Cale.
“Here, look at this,” Sonny commanded. Handed Monty a magazine. It was a woman’s magazine with styles. “Look at her ass, man,” Sonny said and pointed. A spread of semi-nudes, very young and extremely thin women. “I like ‘em skinny,” he said. “Well, I like ‘em all ways.” He chuckled. He grabbed his scissors and made a snip. Then he dropped the scissors. Monty flipped through the magazine. Sonny talking about something. Sonny snipped again, then pointed to another photograph, then stood back, turned around and walked to a drawer. In the drawer he fished around for something. He brought out another pair of sunglasses. “Here, these are better. I can’t stand the other ones.” He removed the black ones replaced with silver ones. Now a rockstar in the mirror, dramatic wrap-arounds, wet hair, ten thirty night. Tapping feet rapidly, thirty-second time. He couldn’t stop tapping and his laugh was a nervous one. A thought: “Shit, I’ve got to call my wife.”
“Aw, maaan,” Sonny said.
Monty didn’t panic. “Nah, nah, this one will be easy. I’ve just go to do it. I’ll pull it off, no problem. Call and then I’ll be able to fully enjoy this. It’s focus, you know, like on mushrooms.”
Sonny handed Monty the phone. Monty dialed and his wife answered immediately. She was relieved that he’d called. Monty was sweet. He loveyed her over the phone, in front of another guy, on coke, no problem. She was appreciative. She thanked him. He said that he loved her and that he’d be home soon. Sonny turned around again, this time in a double spin, and cranked John Cale. He told a story about Eric Clapton stealing the man’s style.
Snip, then talk; a pause; dropped the scissors; grabbed new ones; snip, chat some more, see a new photograph, be inspired to tell a story. Step back tell story. Remember haircut: “Oh yeah, I’m cutting hair here. Shit.” Snip.
“What are we going to do with these sideburns?” Sonny said. Sounded like he wanted them to go. Monty didn’t want them to go. The shades, the hair, the burns. “Just even ‘em up,” Monty said. Sonny took aim.
He looked at Monty’s head in the mirror. “Aggh, I can’t cut with these shades anymore.” He removed them quickly. He looked approvingly. “That’s better.” Music continued impressive blare. The audience clapped. Snip. “Look at this, look at this, look at this,” Sonny said rapid staccato. He flipped the pages. Pointed to another half-naked woman, posing sideways, heroin-skinny, meth emaciated, hair perfect and so cool. Monty looked. Didn’t want the magazine in his lap any longer. He chucked it to the couch near the coffee table magazines. Dark outside, he noticed. Nobody walked this end of the avenue, near the flower shops for the dead. No cops on patrol. Sonny stooped at the counter for another: the sound of a quick snort. He sighed – just there – he sighed. He held scissors and a shaper and a black plastic comb in one hand. He tousled with his free hand. Bent to the task, smiling.
“I’m glad I called my wife,” Monty said. He didn’t feel, among intimates, that he had to be wary.
“Oh, yeah, I remember the days.” Three wives this man. He’d forgotten all about his lover mother of two.
“So Sonny?” from Monty.
“Yeah?”
“Tell me, give me some advice. What does one do – you know, a healthy, virile male, a lion, a fucking hyena – what does this married hyena do about The Last Pussy You Will Ever Know?”
Sonny silent. Monty expecting braggadocio. A form of go get ‘em, tiger. Fuck ‘em all. Be a dog. A lion. A goddam hyena. Instead, himming and hawing. The man’s head swayed; he winced; he paused in thought.
“Well, look at it this way. Once you’ve cheated on your wife. . . you’ve cheated on your wife. You’re one of them. Shit’s never the same. I know: I lasted after my first wedding, oh, about forty five minutes.” He snickered.
“But, I mean, I’m a lion. A hyena! What’s a man do, beat off all the time?”
“Well, you know that trust you have right now? Everything is so good, there’s nothing between you? Well, that’s gone if you cheat and lie. Plus, they always find out. It can never be hidden.”
“What about prostitution?”
His lowered his bottom lip in deep appreciation. “Prostitutes are cool. I like prostitutes. Cost about the same as this haircut.” Again he snickered. Snip. Pause. Snip.
“I don’t know, man. I expected you to push me out toward all these bar babes. Have me jump, be jumped by Sondre or something. You know, prod me along.”
“Not gonna get that from here, my brother. Once you’ve fucked up there’s no going back.”
“For the rest of my life one pussy?!!”
Sonny shrugged his shoulders. “It’s been the problem since the time of man. Sorry I can’t be much help. Can’t tell you to go for it. I mean, I went for it. And I lost three very good women. Each woman was an angel. I lost ‘em. So, I mean. . . you know.”
“I was expecting more.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m a fucking hyena.”
“Well, I scavenge. And, hey: They’re all the same. The act is the same. The penis never knows the difference. He could go anywhere. It’s all the same, just different packaging.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
Snip. Snip. “Wanna nuther bowl?”
“Sure.” Answered without thinking. Now he was the brave adventurer, out there, on the fringe, the party haircut, going where no man has ever.
Sonny turned and loaded his small tinfoil pipe. He tore off some flower and wrapped it in tinfoil. “Here.” Monty thanked him for the bud; slipped in a pocket. He no longer worried about time. Flash in the brain and realized Sonny wasn’t extending the machismo stuff on purpose: simply how he was. He turned back to the mirror and held the pipe. Sonny fired the lighter. Monty inhaled. Sonny pivoted and hit the volume button on his large stereo. The music, beautiful guitar, honest vocals. Sonny leaned over the counter and engaged the last of his powdery pile.
Returned to the head in the mirror. Snip, snip, fluff. He mega-focused, inebriated practitioner. He stopped and opened a drawer. He removed a Vicodin from its plastic slip and popped it. “Calibration,” he announced to the man in the mirror. Monty nodded as if he understood. “Want one?”
“No thank you.”
“Want a stick of gum?”
“Nah.”
“Boy, I sure do.” Sonny snatched a stick and began to chew. The chewing helped his focus. He returned to the hair and began the final push. Sideburns even. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to be an artist,” he said. “This is good.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most of the time I’m marching through a long line of clients. It’s a job. It’s business. This, this, this is sculpture, like back in the day. I’m creating right now. I’m David Bowie.”
“Yeah.” Monty nodded.
“Here, here, look at this.” Handed Monty a mirror and spun the chair. Began to point out the lines, the refinement, the layers and staggered sections that help tousle. He used his fingers. He was damn proud of his work. He was Michelangelo walking around his reformed marble block. “Yes, it’s been a while,” he repeated. “This has been good for me.”
“Well, I’m glad.”
“English school boy Mother’s Day for sure. You like it?”
“I love it, man. Did a great job. I can’t believe you pulled it off.”
“Artiste.” He snipped, puffed, applied some gel. Blow-dried briefly. He adjusted, fluffed, and they both stared at the head in the mirror. Monty did what we all do: he nodded and jutted out his bottom lip: It’s great, thanks.
Sonny flipped off the bib. Hair on the floor. Eleven thirty at night. Monty noticed his hunger. Sonny turned down the music. He left the splayed pile of hair; didn’t sweep, not tonight. They settled up and Sonny gave him the usual deal. Sonny busy tidying aimlessly so Monty left the crisp bills straight from the ATM on the counter. When he told the story later friends said, “You got all that for fifty bucks?” Sonny made sure the fitness center door was closed. Turned off the stereo. And then, before the last lights were off, before the door, the two men hugged. “See ya,” Monty said.
“See ya.”
“You leavin’ now?”
“Yeah, just gonna lock up.”
He flicked the final light and they stepped out to the sidewalk. Sonny locked the door. After another goodbye Monty began walking home. It was cold and he was underdressed. He carried his briefcase. He couldn’t wait to see his wife. Couldn’t wait to eat. He made the curb at the intersection. The light changed and he commenced the hike. Sonny roared by in the Alfa, top down, crossed the intersection, his arm pointed skyward in a grand wave, sound of his engine down the avenue. Monty walked fast and hard, the concoction made him smile; he felt hyper-aware; noticed urban stars, people and cars; he grinned as he walked on his edge, a man of action, smiled into the darkness, turned and began to climb the hill toward home.