When I moved to my new apartment in June, I began the search that all people in new locations dread: find a new and trustworthy barber.  I chose Lily at random and walked into her place one afternoon.  Her voice slurred just slightly when she talked, almost as if there were a lag while she connected thought to speech.  Dirty-blonde hair clumped around her shoulders like tumbleweeds.  She giggled a lot.

Her hands didn’t feel quite right on my head.  Usually you expect a smooth gliding of fingers, a feeing of training and experience.  You want to believe those fingers can knit air.  Lily’s touch was heavier and harder.  I found myself straining to watch the mirror, trying to track the geometric shapes she made with scissors, razor, and brush.

But I liked her chit-chatting skills.  After the obligatory resume spiel ("What do you do when you do that thing you do?"), she talked about where to hike and fish and swim in the East Bay.  She and her husband had lived in Oakland for years, and went outdoors almost every weekend.

Lily began talking about age discrimination in her industry.  She explained that she was gradually losing the young customers to Supercuts.  I expressed surprise, because Supercuts, to me, is like where sheep go to get fleeced: “You!  Come over here!” “BAAAAHH!” (BBZZZZZ) “Thank you, next!” “BAAAAHH!” (BBZZZZZ) “Next!”

She agreed, but said it was all about the sex: “They hire young, pretty girls to bring in the clientele and they don’t have to know a pair of scissors from a garden rake.  All the college guys go there and come out looking like abstract art, but they’re horny and happy.” She admitted, “I tried to get a job at Supercuts a while ago, but I’m too far past my prime.  Of course, they won’t say that to you.  It’s always ‘All stations are full up now, sweetie.’”

I also surprised to learned that she was beginning to suffer from arthritis in her hands and arms.  Not surprised in terms of the haircut I was receiving, because it actually explained a lot.  But I was amazed that she would admit this to a patient who was, as it were, under the knife.

But still--at the end of both the haircut and the energetic conversation--I wasn’t horrified by what I saw in the mirror.  I wasn’t thrilled, either.  It was...okay.  Nothing special and nothing mortifying.

So eight weeks later, I returned to Lily.  To my surprise, she didn’t remember me at all.  I tip well on cuts, and our conversation was long and unforced.  (Often it’s “So, what do you do?” “I’m in Marketing.” “Ahhh, do you work the checkout register or do you bag the groceries?") I also noticed that although I had phoned and made an appointment, there was no one else in the place.  I caught a glance at Lily’s appointment book, and saw a few names scribbled in for later in the day but nothing directly either before or after me.

Because she didn’t remember me, our conversation was a little “Groundhog Day"-ish.  I recited my resume again.  We didn’t discuss sex discrimination this time, but she did talk about favorite spots in the East Bay.  I also thought that her hands seemed even harder and heavier than before.  They grasped at my hair, as though clambering for a handhold.

Two months later I turned up the street, not sure whether I was going to Lily’s.  A block before I reached her place, I guiltily realized that I wasn’t stopping.  How had her hands changed in the intervening two months?  They could be like oven mitts.  Like cudgels.  Like brick bats.  I wanted fingers that could knit air. 

I promised myself at least one thing--I wouldn’t turn and look.

And of course I did.  (Hi, Lot’s wife.  How you doing, Orpheus.) Lily was sitting in one of the chairs, her feet propped up on the footstand.  She was reading the newspaper.  No one was waiting for a cut.  She was alone.