Dave stares straight ahead, about to crack.
“No, it’s not like that,” I explain. “See that girl over there, reading a magazine, that’s my, I mean, one of my girlfriends. I’m very much a man, understand?”
“More than one?” Freddie seems impressed. “Not hard to imagine, a sweet hunk like you. Yes, honey, I can see you are very much a man, and while it might take more than one woman to please you, one talented fellow who really knows—”
“Whoa now, let’s not go there.” This guy has to understand, men can be handsome, sure, but no one gets me off like a woman. “Look, we came here for haircuts, okay?”
Freddie gives me a sly grin, then gets back to business. “And you have come to the right place. I am a master, the creator of any image you desire. It is my art, my craft, my passion in life. Beautiful hair.”
“This job won’t be exactly beautiful.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Put it this way—when you want hair like the guys you hate most, you don’t call it beautiful.”
Dave figures it out and starts his tantrum right on cue. “We’re cutting our hair like them? Are you out of your mind?”
Freddie says, “Adam, look at you, you’ve got David in a tizzy. Just what does this hairstyle look like?”
“Black, short, maybe a little shorter than my bangs, except it should be straight, not like the hack job I did.”
Whoops—cat’s out of the bag.
“Adam! Tell me it’s not so. You did that to yourself? Oh, honey, shame on you. Never cut your own hair, only trust it to your hairdresser. You poor child, you have so much to learn.”
“It was out of control, I looked like a barbarian, you know? I was in space, there were scissors . . .”
“That’s no excuse. From now on you will come to Fredrico. I will be the master of your hair. Now finish telling me what you’re after.”
“Okay, like I was saying, short, straight bangs, but they continue around without sideburns, almost like a helmet, but way too short in front. And all black. Real stupid looking, like a goon.”
“So you want to appear as a stupid looking goon.”
“Exactly.”
Dave drops his shaking head into one hand.
Freddie runs fingers across my jaw. Hey, watch it.
“And the beard?” he asks.
“No beard, clean shaven.”
I’ll look like a goon all right.
Freddie rubs his hands together. “Very well then, let us begin.”
Starting with Dave as I watch, Freddie turns the chair and cocks him back, putting Dave’s head over a shallow sink. Next he whips out a tube and squirts a thick, black goo that he massages into Dave’s scalp, making it the color of road tar, only blacker and shiny like enamel. Freddie rinses the excess, towels Dave off, then pulls out his tools and gets to work. As he pushes on studiously, I offer tips, describing what we hope to come from his efforts. The expression on Dave’s face is a beauty, brows tight and teeth clenched, as if each stroke of Freddie’s tool actually inflicts pain. Freddie drives deeper toward the roots, slicing through vanishing hair as clumps fall to the floor and pile up around the chair. I almost feel sorry for Dave and his blackened banana-head.
Done with Dave, Freddie steps back to admire his work. “Well, Adam, how is that?”
Jet black, the helmet shape, and not a strand out of place. Dave looks like a Bob.
“Perfect. Now do me the same, just the same.”
The whole point—they’re all the same.
He repeats with me and in a short time he’s satisfied. He offers a handheld mirror. As I gaze into it, an evil foe stares back. I might have to kick my own ass.
Arms folded, Freddie leans on one hip. “It’s not a bad look. Smart and businesslike. I have done well.”
His skill with hair is excellent, no doubt, but I wouldn’t call the style
smart.
Dave snatches the mirror and studies himself. “Aw, man, I look terrible.”
“Stop whining, you look fine.” I stand and brush off. “Come on, get your butt in gear. We have much to do.” I yank him off his seat.
On our way to the waiting area, I quietly ask, “Dave, tell me something.”
He halts. “What? How much I hate looking like a freak?”
“No, that’s obvious. I was curious, why you get your hair done by—”
“A faggot?”
“Well, I guess. Not exactly the word I had in mind.”
“He’s the best.”
“You two aren’t . . .”
“He’s the best
hairdresser,
you dork. Really, no one’s as good as Freddie, I know, I’ve tried them all, and most suck.” He introverts momentarily, then glares. “You know what I mean. Don’t judge people by how they look or act, or what they like to play with. Judge them by what they can
do,
and how well they do it, and I’m not talking about that kind of doin’ it, either, you pervert.”
“I wasn’t judging anyone, that’s their own business. I was just curious, are you—”
“
No!
But so what if I was? I’d be off the team, is that it?”
“Just wondered, that’s all.” Wondered whose eyes might be boring into my tail end when I didn’t know better.
We continue to the waiting area and join Madison. She looks up from the magazine and her face goes sour. “Oh, Adam, your beard, what have you done? And your hair, that’s awful. You looked so good before.” Then she glances at Dave and cringes.
A bunch of whiners. It’s only hair.
“Don’t worry, it’ll grow back. All part of the plan.”
This is the best idea I could come up with. If anyone has a better idea, I’m all ears. On the way out, passing a mirror confirms it—I
am
all ears, thanks to this ridiculous haircut. I’m a stupid looking goon all right.
* * *
After rescue, I was anxious to lose the barbarian look, but had no idea it would ultimately lead to this. Dave is right, he looks terrible, and so do I. Worse is the discomfort. The short hair is tolerable, but my naked face is chilled by the slightest breeze. Comfort will have to wait, as our success depends on effective disguises. However, we’ll need more than matching haircuts.
Back on the sidewalk, we hurry past storefronts. Hardware, pet grooming, a sandwich shop, none of which complete the costume. Then we happen along a store with wooden bodies posing in the window, clothed in flashy apparel. The place looks promising.
Inside the store, a young woman emerges from between the racks. Her hair sprouts multiple colors, blueberry, hot pink, streaks of dayglo orange. A tight jumpsuit clings to her bones so precisely, the sight is not exactly attractive.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“You tell me. We’re looking for a black jacket.”
“Like, denim? Fleece? Maybe tweed. Or something totally intense, you know, like leather.”
“Actually, we’re looking for cheesy plastic, the shiny kind.”
The clerk studies Dave, then me. Particularly, our hair.
“Seriously?” she asks.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Like, that fad dried up forever ago, just like your gnarly hair. Get with the times, dorko. You been camping out in an ice cube?”
I don’t care to go into
that
particular story with this intriguing young lady. Maybe some other lifetime.
“Look, do you have what we need or not?”
The store clerk rolls her mascara-blackened eyes. “Sure, I got what you need,
totally.
” She starts toward the rear of the store, and we follow.
After a few aisles, Madison stops to pull a jacket from the rack. She holds it up and pins it against me. “You’d look good in this, Adam, real good.”
Maybe, except it’s brown suede.
“Madison, we didn’t come here so I can look
real good.
We came here for something specific, and that’s not it.”
“I know, but look, it’s on sale.” She stuffs the tag in my face. “How can you pass up a deal like this? Think of the savings.”
“I’ll save plenty, by
not
buying it. See, that’s a great sale—one-hundred percent off.” I snatch the bargain from her and cram it back in the rack of spectacular savings.
She frowns and gives me more of those puppy dog eyes. She doesn’t care about finding a deal. She’s looking for any excuse to interact—she misses me. At least, how I used to be.
We catch up with Dave and the clerk just as she crowns him with a ridiculous yellow wig of bouncy curls flowing past his shoulders. He goes into jackass mode, flinging the plastic yellow doll hair as he plays air-guitar to some obnoxious racket blaring from a boom box. What the hell is this?
The clerk zeros in on me, a matching wig in her grasp. “Here’s what you need, dick-weed, then you won’t look like such a dork.”
Dave calls out, “Hey, Adam, check it out. Let’s be rock stars instead. Du du du, whaaiing . . .”
Oh please. It’s bad enough pretending to play guitar. Don’t even try to imagine that anything from your mouth could ever come close.
The clerk pushes a jacket at me, but there’s one big problem—
plaid?
“I would not wear a plaid jacket if my life depended on it, which it just so happens, it does. We’re looking for cheesy plastic.”
“Like, it’s not my job, your dorkness, to make you look all goony and out of fashion. Get hip already.”
Next she holds out a pair of striped pants adorned with glitter. This is absurd. What the hell are we doing here?
Wasting time!
“I realize the answer to your original question.”
The young clerk is puzzled. That figures, her query was, like, so five minutes ago.
“What question?” she asks.
“No, you can’t help us.”
* * *
Outside again, we stand on a corner, searching for an answer. Across the street are sporting goods, two bars, and a furniture store. Farther along the block, we pass a gift boutique, antique shop, and restaurant. The plan is sinking fast.
Determined to make this work, I lead the way along the next two blocks, in search of the right shop. Ahead is a secondhand store. That could work. What is not in fashion one day, ends up someplace else the next.
When we enter the store, no one emerges from the racks to ask if they can help. We’re off to a better start already. Rummaging through all the store has to offer, it’s hard to imagine anyone would pay good money for this junk, but apparently people do. The place is open for business and full of scrounging shoppers. Deeper in the store, my nose catches a whiff of the threadbare garments. Do they wash this stuff before putting it on the rack? Everything smells funny, like it’s been here awhile.
In the coat section, the racks are stuffed full, but without any effort to categorize anything. A heavy parka hangs next to a business suit, then a jean jacket, followed by a pink tuxedo with ruffled collar. Not a single item matches any other, unless of course, you judge by odor.
We march the aisles, sifting through the mess. Between a vinyl yellow raincoat and a green corduroy zip-up sort of thing, I find a black jacket, the cheesy plastic kind the Bobs wear.
“Dave, over here.”
He comes near and I pull out the jacket.
His brows dart up. “You expect me to wear
that?
”
“That’s the plan.”
He reaches into the rack and pulls out a windbreaker made of bright silver foil, with hood and matching gloves. “You wear it, I’ll wear this.”
“Right, and get us both torched. We have to look like them, not Johnny Space Cadet.”
He scans the rack. “But they only have one.”
“I got one back home, remember? Your little joke the other night?” I push the jacket at him and grin. “Come on, Bobby boy, it’ll look so good on you.”
He glares hard.
I match the glare and end playtime. “Put it on.”
Though reluctant, he slips into the jacket, then turns to a mirror. He might be happier if he was handed a life sentence.
“Lighten up, Dave, it’s not that bad.”
“Yes it is, look at me.” He stares into the mirror, horrified. “I look like a penis.”
I glance at the mirror. Can’t argue with the dork, considering the helmet hair.
“That’s a good thing,” I say.
“Oh? How you figure?”
“Just think, all the girls will want Penis Man, the guy with the big package. They’ll all be chasing after you.”
He brightens up. “Yeah, I could wear a cape.” He raises a clenched fist overhead and hollers in a deep, pretending-to-be-mighty voice, “Penis Man, man of steel!” Then he brings arms to his sides and thrusts his entire body like it’s one giant cock.
Oh brother, now what have I done? Given myself a fit of laughter. But more than that, I have restored a vital ingredient to our success—Dave and his splendid sense of humor.
* * *
Back home, Matt is lounging on the sofa, taking apart some gadget, pieces of it scattered across the coffee table. As we enter, he idly glances, then a double take, eyes wide.
“What have you done?” he asks.
“Shut up,” Dave says. “Just be glad Adam didn’t make you do it too.”
“I am, trust me.” Matt’s horrified stare shifts to me, and he points to Dave. “You make me look like that and we won’t be friends anymore.”
“Settle down,” I say. “There’s a good reason, and we need your help.”
“As long as it doesn’t include turning me into a mutant.”
Smirking, Madison moves past and goes to the kitchen. Sure, she still has her hair.
Matt stays focused on me. “Hey, now hold on. What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”
“I’m done with that. We have other things to do.”
“What are you talking about? You had a heart attack.”
“I took care of it.”
Dave says to Matt, “He thinks he’s a doctor now.”
“What?” Matt swings around to me. “Adam, you’re a screwball. You could’ve died.”
I start for the kitchen. “So what, it’s just a body.”
Dave reaches out to stop me. “But are you ready for that? Have you remembered what to do?”
His question strikes a chord of fear. Immortality is a wonderful
idea,
but a dreadful unknown remains—how to die, and what to do afterward. In my ignorance, capture is most likely, as before. I should be more concerned about potential death, but even worse, knowing the unpleasant experience could extend far beyond the loss of one body, I must be careful. However, that concern needs to stay private. For our next challenge, and any hope of staying alive, I require their confidence.