I’ve only had one long-term barber relationship. I was 19 and filled with the arrogance of your average college football player. Mr. Wilson was much older but understood me in ways no one ever had. There was never a need to tell him how I wanted it cut – he would have ignored me anyway. Mr. Wilson cut it the way he wanted and it was always better than my ideas. I gleefully visited him at the prescribed times knowing that compliments would flow from my contemporaries later. Graduation day was bitter sweet – I moved more than a thousand miles away and never saw him again. I don’t really like talking about it.
Every barber since has been chasing the memory of Mr. Wilson, and there have been many of them – my number is higher than I would like to admit. Scores of one cut stands, a hnadful of 4 or 5 cut flings, but nothing proved lasting. It wasn’t that I was unable to commit, I told myself, but that no one met all of my needs. So I shamelessly flitted from barber to barber.
There was Tony who always wanted to remake my hair in his image; I would return to him on occasion when whatever barber of the moment was unable to squeeze me into his schedule. Jason always took too much but he was such a good conversationalist. Almost two years ago Flip became the closest thing I’ve had to a steady since Mr. Wilson. He was pretty good – just not quite right – but our relationship was strong enough that we could communicate about our problems and it got incrementally better each time. Then he left me for another shop and none of his colleagues knew where.
With no Flip, I started seeing Wayne for a few cuts. They were from the same shop but Flip left me – I rationalized. Not more than a month ago my friend, Lemon Gloria, wrote about the relationship problems she was having with her stylist. When I commented about the virtue of hair fidelity, I secretly knew the karma of my whorish ways was going to exact some comeuppance and soon.
When Flip returned to his old chair, I went back to him without condition and barely registered the hurt in Wayne’s eyes. Apparently barbershop sluts, like me, quickly develop immunity to the jealous glares of an ex as another set of scissors touches our hair because I felt nothing when I said hello to Wayne.
This most recent Saturday the darkness of my promiscuity was met by the light of retribution. I strolled into the shop and nodded hello to Wayne even as I settled into Flip’s chair. He delivered on the progress of all cuts past and gave me the perfect haricut. I’d finally found someone who filled the void Mr. Wilson had left all those years ago. I stood, admired his work in the mirror and then Flip said it.
“Refugee, I love having you here. You’re a great customer and a great tipper too.”
“Flip, I feel a ‘but’ coming.”
“Yeah, I’m not happy about it; but I can’t see you anymore.”
“What are you saying; you don’t want to cut my hair any more?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to; it’s that I can’t. It’s creating too much tension in the shop because of Wayne. He sees you as his client; and I can’t be the guy who interferes with relationships. I have to work here everyday.”
I didn’t protest – I wanted to leave with some dignity – but I left a bit troubled and with knowledge that my whorish behavior had cost me relationships I valued at the same moment I was finally ready to commit.
Posted by restaurant refugee 
