my first New York haircut

I'm still not used to the subways here, the mass exodus of people flocking to their respective trains, pushing, shoving, yelling, singing, kissing, crying-- sometimes it's all too much noise, and there's always a man playing the guitar, or the citar, or the accordion, and then the homeless man who says he wants to see some real nice smiles or hey a dollar would work too, honey.

Kenny steps around the corner, wearing a Green Bay Packers shirt and thick, black-framed glasses, and I tower over him by at least a foot. "Hello there," he says, shaking my hand briefly and leading me back to a chair. "So let's talk." I show him a picture I have printed from a website called TrendyHairstylezForYou or something of that nature, and he takes a brief glance and immediately declares he's thinking "20s or 60s bob, Daryl-Hannah-in-Bladerunner type of thing." I tell him I've never seen Bladerunner before and he looks shocked and launches into a discussion about science fiction movies, talking at such a rapid pace that I can make out maybe one word every ten seconds, so I nod politely. Then he's washing my hair and I ask him how many tattoos he has. "OhIdon'tknowijustgetthemidon'tevenreallylookatwhattheyarei'mthatguypicksomethinoffthewall hahah" and he tries to show me the tattoo on his shoulder and sprays water all over my face. He seems not to notice, leads me back to the chair. "MANiusedtogotoconcertsallthetimeandgetreallyfuckinbaked hahahheyiwasinharrisburgonceforthebmxbikeshowmanitwasmphaiohaoifgehin." I can't decipher what the show was but I decide I don't want to know, and he's moved on to talking about punk shows, and then the front-desk guy says he was in some band called Ram Shades back in the 90s and Kenny explodes, "Manyou guyswerefucking GREAT! IusedtoworkatthisbaronAvenueB calledWhiteHorse" And then front-desk guy with waist-length hair who is wearing red velvet jeans says "No way I worked at that bar TOO" which begins a dialogue between Kenny and Red Velvet about how R.V. totally ripped on the stand-up bass and Kenny can't BELIEVE that they both played together and now they work together and didn't even know it. "But see, now I wear glasses," Kenny said matter-of-factly, as if the glasses, not the drugs, are why they have forgotten each other over the years.

All this time he has not taken one sliver of hair off my head but instead is waving the scissors around in excitement, and at his last statement, he plasters my wet hair against my face and cuts it, and I wince. "Don't worry, I won't cut you," he says. "I know you probably don't trust me because I'm Puerto Rican," he adds, laughing, and I smile awkwardly, and he goes on to tell me how he loves the punk scene and hates all those goddamned hipsters with their oversized handbags and I wonder how long he will last in Williamsburg. Then the cut is done and he blowdries my hair. Noticing that I look concerned because my hair is now just slightly below my ear, he adds, "Don't worry, it's gonna look top-notch when it's all done, I promse, it's just gonna look--he makes a clicking noise with his tongue and gives a thumbs-up--great, great." And then it's done, and he blow-dries the cut hair off the sheet covering my lap at the wrong angle, blowing all of it instead into my face, which he then tenderly pats off with a brush. "Okay, bye," he says, and I get out of the chair. Red Velvet doesn't even look at my face and mutters "creditordebit" and I pay, turn to Kenny, who is sweeping up my mounds of hair, and say bye. "Have fun tonight," he says cheerily.