Sandy said, "Why don’t you try this barber in Green Harbor?" I called. They don’t take appointments. What? I try a barber downtown. They have big screen TVs and snappy-looking hair stylists. Guess what? They don’t take appointments either.
For 40 years I would call Yankee Clipper -- cool name if you think about it, for a harbor and ship-building town -- and schedule my appointment with my friend Carol Santacross. A relative changed their name from Santacroce because of the racial bias against Eatalians in Boston at the time. Are you kidding me? Who doesn’t love Italians? Who doesn’t like pasta fagioli?
I am starting to look like Forrest . . . Forrest Gump when he decided to run across the country. OK I will give Green Harbor Barber a shot for the pleasure of cutting my hair and trimming my beard and mustache. I call. No answer. No message on their machine either. I Google. They -- there are two barbers -- open at 10. I arrive at 10. Parked on either side of me are two customers. 10:18 she arrives. She is encumbered by something, but from the tall vehicles on either side of me I cannot see why she is moving so slowly. She unlocks the door and lets her dog enter first.
Cosmetology salons Chapter 61G5-20. "No animals shall be allowed in salon." You can, however, have fish.
Naturally the dog greets me on my entry. "How long until I can get a haircut?” She says she is the only barber.
I try my second choice in downtown Marshfield. It is even worse than I remember. Both stylists are showing off their tattoos. As you remember, Sandy owned a day spa for 17 years. She had hair stylists, massage therapists and estheticians. Each group looks so different. You can actually see the difference and you know who is who. I am in a hair salon and it is obvious to me that I am in a hair salon. I am asked to sign in on their computer. They want my e-mail address and telephone number and they INSIST that it is OK to TEXT me. Not this cowboy. Never. Let's just say it is not a good start for the 73 year old. I type in an incorrect cell phone number. E-mail address? Not today. I am in the chair. Should she do a Number 2 or a Number 1 on me? Do you want a sand filter or a diatomaceous filter? How the hell should I know? I am a pool guy, in for a simple hair cut and beard trim. We decide on a Number 2.
It seems that this week my hair stylist cracked a tooth while eating or drinking a pomegranate drink. Her dentist is off till next week. “What the fuck," she says. “I will have to drink Jack Daniels over the weekend for the pain." Help me, Dear God, for I am so fucking far out of my league. Whoops, did I say the F-word? How unprofessional of me.
Pomegranate is a wonderful spelling test word.
On the way home, I am kind of itchy from the hair cut. Somehow with Carol I never was. Remember the old days with the hand clippers and the pain they caused?
I catch Sandy in the kitchen. She says, "What happened to you? Your mustache is totally crooked."
It's true. If I frown, it looks really bad. But if I smile it looks ok.
Later I say "Hi" to my grandson Abel and he says, “Grampa, you look so different."
Kezia took these photos.
