Put a Lid on it.

                                              Put a Lid on it!  [892 words]

    I hear that it does not take much of an event to draw a crowd in New York City. We take that to the extreme here in Sun City. One wag has called it God’s Waiting Room and never received a word of protest from his listeners. So watching a haircut for excitement is not out of line or over the top.

Feeling the need to pass some time I elected to get my monthly military style crew cut at Ralph’s Barbershop, a landmark in Sun City. Although Ralph is a recent transplant from Russia, the shop has been around 40 years, since the beginning of Sun City.

I saunter into the barbershop and find two of the four chairs empty. Ralph, who is the chief capitalist, CEO, chairperson of the board and person in charge, has a customer in his domain of high esteem, the first chair on the left as I enter.

Back near the rear wall, next to the place where the shaving mugs are placed for special customers, only one mug and brush remains. The remaining space now holds assorted knickknacks. Here is Frank, who is the number two barber. He is watching a Morrie Kovich type program on the just a little bit too loud TV. Frank notes my arrival, points to his chair, I point to Ralph, Ralph nods, Frank goes back to the TV. Our communication complete I look for a place to wait.

All about the shop are miniature replicas of vintage automobiles. A collection that Ralph bought from a former good old boy customer who convinced him that this would be a great draw to his business.

Noting an old woman seated in first chair on right across from Ralph, I take a chair two up from her, under the “Neck shaved by request” sign, to keep my social distance. Without a doubt, she is the spouse of the guy in Ralph’s chair. The first I notice about her is that she is sitting there holding the old man’s wig. Twisting it, every which way and that, like a tear soaked handkerchief. I’m not sure if this comes from apprehension or tenderness.

I look over the bald guy in the chair and immediately name him Pat. Now bald men do get haircuts in Sun City. Perhaps it’s some ritual, however, Pat did have a few tuffs of hair around the side like an aging monk.

Eyes closed, over rosacea chapped ostrich skin, many decades past the age of consent, at home with Jack Benny, it seemed as if he were airtight, hermetically sealed, and safe. The green inexpensive barber apron covered the neck down, added to the illusion that he is protected by a tamperproof, mummified garment.

While the two ceiling fans rotate slowly, Ralph is moving around, animated and graceful in full swing, with a rhythmic snipping at frizzy tuffs of hair, getting the landing strip ready for the arrival of the good ship toupee. Not saying a word, a back and forth animation, snip, snip, snip, continuous. He knows he is a target, he knows her.

Then -- he is caught between snips.

Hilda stands-up, moves to position herself so to look at Ralph’s work. Speaks a foreign language, an accented abracadabra Russian or middle European mixed with English that Ralph understands. An earful of introductory remarks, opening statement, conclusion, and verbal instructions all rolled up in a barrage of syllables – The Apostles’ Creed of how hair should be cut.

Ralph, with an annoyed falsetto gives Hilda an oral invitation to sit down. “I know how to cut hair! Let me cut the hair. You can examine it later,” he scolds.

Annoyed, she returns to her chair and nervously twisting the lid. She sits, and moves her posterior about as if it aches and pains to complain, find fault, criticize and exchange harsh words. This is the only way she knows,
The dance continues. She gets up, jumps down Ralph’s throat by repeating her evaluation. Hilda elbows Ralph to one side and tries to place the “lid” on Pats head.

His territory invaded; Ralph tries to defend and elbows back. Pushing her hand-holding the lid to one side, he keeps shooing her off while preserving a drumbeat of clicking scissors and in a tempo of language that she understands – tells her to sit. Hilda complies, she sits again, chattering with a cadence and beat as if speaking in tongues, she stands up and takes an encore.

Ralph trims Pat’s eyebrows and proclaims the haircut finished. He invites Hilda to inspect and put the lid on. I look-up to see – it looks like a man is wearing a wig. Nevertheless, it passes inspection and Hilda is pleased, and when Hilda is happy, everybody is happy.

Pat and Hilda walk out of the shop hand in hand. I imagine that I see a skip in his step, some spice in his life. He has someone who cares about him and he sports a haircut style worthy of a Caesar. I become aware that through it all, never once did Pat speak.

After they leave and out of hearing, Ralph turns to Frank and shares his wisdom, “I never give a good haircut when the wife is around.” Frank agrees. They start sharing wife stories, as Ralph motions me to his chair.

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