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Last Friday I was told to lean "all the way back", and then a man washed my hair. Gently.

I've had men cut my hair a zillion times before. But all those guys called themselves 'barbers' and they worked in 'barbershops'. Out front you would see a barber pole, which helped the customers remember that barbers used to have the manly duty of bloodletting, and even surgery! We trust these guys. They usually wear a long, blue zip front smock with a collar. The stories they spin took place in 40's till the 70's, the content of which is activity in a war, avoiding a war, or horsing around with pals in their Studebakers and Ford Falcons. The current news they chat about is typically the trouble with mass transit, government rights, reckless drivers, rediculous fishing permit rules, and where to get a good slice of pie. From age 7-10 I attended a barbershop that was decorated like a hunter's trophy room. In college I got my haircut in downtown Abilene at Dub's. I moved to Portland and got a haircut from an old-school barber a couple times at first, but I started going to Bishops Barbershop because they give you beer. I left barber scene.

Tom (looks about 57 years old) has been cutting hair in downtown Portland for 25 years, and he works alone. His shop doesn't have the aforementioned barber pole. When I walked in, a high-tech stuffed pig motion detector started oinking. The walls looked just as they did when he scouted out this location several years ago: White with no decorations. In the lobby there was a red vinyl couch nobody sits on with magazines in front of it that nobody reads. This may have been the most inconspicuous, most nondescript place of business I've ever seen. It was like a movie set where the goal is for you to notice at a glance that people get haircuts here, but there isn't anything else there to distract you from the characters.

I said, "I like what you've done with the place." He must have detected the sarcasm, because he said, "Oh, yeah? What would I do?" I said nothing because I had no response. It seemed like he knew I wouldn't have anything to suggest, like he had me pegged from the minute I walked in. I made a mental note of the brand of sarcasm that he employed. It's like when two people know each other really well. One person might say something in a deadpan, or matter-of-fact way that is obviously not true, and the listener understands this to be sarcasm because he/she knows the speaker very well (like if I said flatly, "I love to wear speedos...") But when two people don't know each other very well, the speaker must change his/her tone to make the sarcasm clear, and so the listener understand the content of what is said is not true. Tom used with me sarcasm reserved for friends. He wanted to throw me off a little bit. Maybe that's how old guys do it. Maybe he saw me as a peer.

A couple weeks ago I was walking past his shop and I spotted him outside smoking. I told him I needed a haircut soon, so he dug out a business card from his pants pocket with his free hand and handed it to me, and he told me to call and set up an appointment. A week later when I arrived for my haircut, he feigned a puzzled look and asked, "Why weren't you here this morning?" Earlier in the day I called him from court because a case was running long and so we rescheduled for later.

"Like I said on the phone, court ran long," I said. He replied, "Yeah, so why weren't you here?"Puzzled and not wanting myself to get grumpy with the guy who is about to cut my hair, I moved things along: "Where do you want me to sit?" He directed me towards both his chairs. I naturally picked the wrong one, which gave him the opportunity to make the crack, "No, you're other right." I moved to the other chair without comment, and this is when he said to me, "Just lean all the way back." I remember feeling my abdomen muscles suddenly conflicted: Some letting me back, some keeping me forward, and my body weight deciding for everyone that I was going lay back on the damn chair. It was as though the base of my spine said 'just lean back, you wimp', but my cerebral cortex waved a yellow caution flag. A dizzying, stale cigarette odor wrapped around my head while his hands rubbed the soap through my hair. I was lightheaded when I thought he might actually be washing cigarette smell off his hands and onto my scalp, and it occurred to me that this was unfair. 

I moved to the other chair after he finished rinsing and softly drying my hair. I'm a little ashamed to say that it felt good. This was quite a departure from the ancient temple massager Ol' Dub used to press against my head without asking me first. I hated that thing. Anyway, I told Tom what I wanted and he started to work. After a few minutes the phone rang. As he is the only employee, he stopped what he was doing to go answer it. I heard, "No, dumbass, I'm not at the bar yet. I'm cutting Gavin's hair." He made a few more cracks to let me know that this was either a business partner or a friend. In my experience, saying something like that is meant to endear myself to him, or at least make me ask, "Who was that?" But this was my first haircut by Tom. And the same reason why I didn't ask who had called should have been applied by Tom in why he shouldn't use my name with a stranger: unfamiliarity still between us. The mystery remained unsolved, but I'm still slightly curious about the tease.

I've seen Tom smoking cigarettes outside his shop for a couple years. It was tough for me to connect who I saw in person as someone who cuts hair because, 1) He doesn't dress like a barber, and 2) He doesn't dress like a typical hair stylist. Tom, as today, always wore solid oxford shirts, cheap khakis, and loafers. He doesn't fit the neighborhood. His shop sits between a printing press, a crappy downtown convenience store, and across the street from a nasty Section 8 building. My point is that he is the only guy on his block who routinely tucked his shirt in and had a hairstyle that could be worn without catching a bit of attention in this decade or the past five. I asked him about the folks who live across the street because I thought he could throw me some gems. I was correct.

He actually turned my chair towards the window that faced the building to point things out. I worried for a moment that coworkers walking by would notice me on display for their razzing. He pointed to the apartment building and said, "The (address of the building)? You don't want to live there." If forgot about my coworkers and listened up.

I've walked by those apartments like I've walked by Tom's shop: A million times before and with a quickened pace. All you ever see are the smokers taking drags. Sure, if you listen you can pick up on some juicy psychobabble, but it's usually no biggie. But Tom works in front of the apartments. He sees more than I do because he smokes across the street from them. So he warned me, "Don't ever go in there," his eyes widend for emphasis, "'cause it's a box of loonies."

A box of loonies. Terrific. He chuckled as a fond memory synapsed and moved forward. He points outward and said, "See where that Buick is?" I said, 'yes'. He went on to tell a story about a fella from the apartments who exposed himself to a female employee of the printing press next door, and then urinated near the Buick for convenience sake. Though I wanted to ask for a few more details (like if that was his Buick), I decided against it for fear of coming on too strong in my first appointment.

I decided to make another appointment. This is partly because after we finished, he said what he does for his other clients is call them for a reminder in 6 weeks. I said 'ok'. I didn't say, "I'll call you," because it would sound like I didn't approve of the haircut. But I liked the haircut. I provided my phone number when asked, but he couldn't find any paper. So he oddly started writing on the counter with a regular pen. Now I'm a permanent fixture? I didn't ask anything about this or make a comment. I thanked him for the cut, tipped him $5 and left for the day feeling slightly uneasy, but with a sharp haircut. We didn't hug or even shake hands when it was finished.

My wife complimented me on it later that night and said I was sexy.

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