Barbershop

 

I walked into the back entrance of the barbershop and into the hallway I’d passed through many times. I kid you not, the first sentence that carried my way from a setup of barber chairs was this:

“I’ll just go to the Men’s Room and pleasure myself.”

I had just passed the Men’s Room by the back exit. At that moment, I was a stride away from the red-white-and-blue swirling light pole, the Americana-token of the neighborhood barbershop. I had an impulse to stop in my tracks, stunned by the what-the-fuck-ness of it all. I didn’t. I had a $20 bill and I wanted a haircut.

Three men in their 60s stood around the chair where I’d soon be sitting. Two barbers and one patron with a fresh buzz-cut eyeballed me. I sensed discomfort. Had I heard what the man had just said? You know I did. The man’s midwestern nasal voice had pierced through the barbershop for all to hear.

The bathroom masturbator slunk his hands into his tan khakis. He fought spots of blushing red on his pale face. The main barber, Sid, cleared his throat aggressively and struggled to look at me. The barber’s cohort was the least daunted. He flinched, mostly at the way his pals had reacted to my sudden appearance. Then he was back to normal. The cohort folded his arms across his robust belly and he leaned forward in a gesture wanting to resume their chat.

I stood in place without getting too close to them. I managed a “Hi Sid” to the man who’d be cutting my hair. Several feet of distance became the closest thing I had to comfort.

The lavatory perv got over his wave of dread and continued his train of thought.

“It’s a real shame,” he said. “Letting them have their Pride Night at the old ballpark.”

“It ain’t like it used to be, that’s for sure,” Sid said, shaking his head and matching his pal’s mournful tone.

That’s when it clicked for me. They were voicing their dismay for the upcoming Pride Night at Miller Park. Mini Pride flags were to be handed out at the gates, and rainbow-colored Brewers shirts and fanny packs would be on full display. These Boomer-age baseball fans were awfully sad about that.

Poor guys... All they had was the measly freedom to go to any of the other 80 regular-season games that had no mention of LGBTQ rights. Sweet Baby Jesus, when will the oppression of straight American white guys end?

My eyes did not roll as I kept a poker face and wandered to a display of bobbleheads, turning my back on the three men. A Robin Yount bobblehead. Great ballplayer. Fascinating. On the inside, I was grossed out and annoyed by their bigotry--but I was also delighted. I was never going to forget what the bitter homophobe had said the instant I walked into that place.

“I’ll just go to the Men’s Room and pleasure myself.”

Oh my God! He was trying to mimic a homosexual when I entered the scene. In his mind, he was doing a spot-on impression of what every gay man in attendance at that night’s game was sure to announce. In his mind, he was criticizing gay culture for being socially deviant and lewd by putting words in their mouths. Only one problem. When you’re trying to impersonate someone for the sake of mocking them, you’re supposed to change the sound of your voice, ya silly goose!

Instead, this crafty comic said what he believed to be a stereotypically gay comment, 100% in his own Midwestern nasal voice. For the purpose of condemning gay people, he unleashed what he thought was the most flamingly gay remark a man could make at Miller Park on Pride Night… and that is exactly when I showed up on-time to get a damn haircut.

He made this comment to two other men beside him, as they nodded in comradery. As I walked down the hallway with this sleazy comment coming at me like a scorching line drive off the bat, how did these guys expect me to react?

I’m not saying the social disaster would’ve been less awkward had the toilet fornicator changed his voice to sound like Richard Simmons or Elton John or somebody. That part also would’ve been bad. But the way it went down, I was so disappointed in his creative skills--among other disappointments. Dude, if you’re not going to change your voice, then don’t say the extremely gay thing in first-person/ “I” form.

He also could’ve explained himself to me when I showed up to hear him declare his plans, but I guess he had too much pride. Isn’t that ironic?

He could have manned up and been honest to ease the discomfort in that moment.

OK, now’s a good time for some context, Millennial. See, I have serious issues with self-worth, and I feel disconnected to ways I can improve myself. That’s why I seek a feeling of superiority over those who have had a harder time being accepted in life. Also, I am very bad at doing impressions.

But he didn’t say that! He chickened out.

As the atomic bond of those three men loosened and the patron moved slowly toward the back exit (right by the Men’s Room, yikes!), I wandered closer to the barber chair to get my damn hair cut. The barber cohort grinned with a hint of “World’s gone to hell in a handbasket” on his dopey face. He never said a word; he reminded me of one of the background stooges behind Wesley Mantooth as he challenged Ron Burgundy in Anchorman. What a life!

I finally sat in the chair and had the covering draped over me. I really wanted to say, “So, am I gonna hear that guy jerking off in your bathroom?” I didn’t. I observed and got the story together in my diabolical writer’s brain. 

As the barber did his thing, occasionally we spoke of baseball--just the standings and stats. It was a stilted and lifeless talk about something we both love.

Midway through an experience that dragged on like a scoreless ballgame in the top of the 18th inning, Sid’s legs buckled and he went down to a knee.

“You alright?” I asked.

He nodded feverishly--inhaled and exhaled a few mighty gusts and regathered himself. He stood up and re-gripped his scissors, poised to finish the haircut. (Again, the cohort watched this happen without uttering a word. I was astounded by his silence.) Sid stood up with resolve to finish the job.

I knew he wasn’t alright. To an Anxiety All-Star like me, it looked like he had a panic attack. His thoughts and emotions were in a state of disarray and he had to keep a steady hand. It was too much. I felt bad for him. Clearly, I’m not a fan of homophobia, but still, I felt bad for him. 

When the last follicle got clipped and the hairshield was removed with a satisfying flap of air, I leapt out of that chair with the gusto of Ken Griffey Jr. leaping at the wall to rob a home run. I gave Sid 20 bucks and headed for the exit. 

On my way out I took in the bobblehead display, the light pole swirling for the USA in the hallway, and that now-infamous Men’s Room for the last time. I pushed through the door and left that place behind.