I nod and focus on the patterns on the cape covering my lap: vintage graphics of shaving creams, brushes, straps and scissors. I do not look up again until he is finished.
“What do you think?”
In my periphery, the barber holds up a mirror. I place my hands over my eyes.
“No,” I say. “I don’t want to look at myself until I get home.”
“Dramatic much?” an elegant elderly man asks, laughing at me.
“Always,” I answer. “It’s sort of my signature.”
I pay the owner, and he gives me another fist bump. I keep my back turned to the mirror. I avoid any reflection on my drive home, my eyes firmly on the road before me. The top is down, and I do not feel my cloud of hair whipping around my head anymore.
I park my convertible and hurry inside, praying no one sees me.
I beeline to my bedroom, turning on all of the bathroom lights, take a deep breath and look into my mirror.
My father is staring back at me.
“Hi, Dad,” I say to myself. “There you are, you old son of a bitch. You’ve been hiding there all these years, haven’t you?”
I stare at my reflection. Everything looks different: the shape of my head, my nose, my eyes, the wrinkles, the lack of a chin.
Out of habit, I grab some gel and try to style my hair. It is too short to do anything.
My safety net is gone.
I want to cry, but I laugh instead.
Hair on a head is not like the roof of a house. It is not a simple, shingled layer of protection from rain and sun. No, it is fine design, a thing of precision and beauty, an accoutrement.
I glance up.
Like a vintage Sputnik chandelier.
A home should be a reflection of your soul, who you are, how you live, how you see the world and how you want the world to see you. It should provide you beauty and comfort, but most of all, safety.
I was denied all of this and have spent my whole life trying to create it for others and myself. My life is in this home with my friends. This home is my sanctuary from the cruelty of the world.
I have only wanted to be safe my entire life.
I touch my head.
I think of Dotty so long ago.
“Higher the hair, the closer to God.”
I don’t know how close or far away I am from God, but I am convinced of one principle: The only thing we can do is continue to spread our wings, be good people and come as close to God as we possibly can through kindness.
I will never be a man of organized religion, but I will always be a child of faith.
I shut my eyes, and I can see my mom brushing my hair as a boy. I am seated in her lap. I am warm. I am safe.
Standing before my mirror, I finally allow myself to bid farewell to her, my childhood, my addiction, my crutch, the one thing that has ruled over me for as long as I can remember.
“It’s not your hair that has kept you safe, silly, vain boy,” I say to my reflection. “It’s you who’s kept you safe.”
I lean in even closer, and it is then I can see it clearly.
