He wasn’t truly remarkable. His renown was parochial, known but to an intimate few who called themselves his friends and clients — and, of course, to his mother.
Jon was a hairstylist, in a similar sense that his mother’s friend — a fixer of sinks, toilets, and bathtubs — was known as a domestic engineer, and his mother — who at last count, had been married seven times — was thought of as a nuptial conglomerate.
As a hairstylist, Jon was the best, known beyond the Bay area as Jon of San Francisco. His clientele included Scarlett O’Grady, the child movie star, though now in her teens. As an actress playing juvenile rôles, Jon styled Scarlett’s raven hair in ringlets. But Jon tired of the twisting and curling. He dreamed of a more mature style for Scarlett. So, one day when Scarlett came to his salon without her ubiquitous mother, he created the raven lock that resembled a French roll. Scarlett beamed as she admired herself in the mirror. She left Jon’s salon and had her chauffeur drive her to Saks, where she traded in her VIVAIA square-toe Mary Janes for a pair of Roger Vivier leather Mary Janes.
Gracie Manson, the gossip columnist for the LA Gazette, was another of Jon’s clients at his San Francisco salon.
“Jon,” she told him before her first session began, “Jon, I don’t expect miracles, but I do expect you to take twenty years off.” Jon looked at Gracie ... and thought her request would need divine intervention. But he was Jon of San Francisco. When he was finished, Gracie floated out of his salon — and she did look twenty years younger.
A week after he changed Scarlett’s ringlets for a raven lock, he read in the Hollywood Sheet that, “Child star, Scarlett O’Grady, has dumped MJM and formed her own production company. She announced that she no longer feels the desire to play juveniles and has bought the production rights for Look Homeward, Irishwoman, the bestseller by Saoirse Kaufmann. We at the Sheet believe Scarlett is sure to win an Oscar.”
As Jon was putting down the newspaper, another item caught his eye.
“Feared gossip columnist, Gracie Manson, eloped last night with the dashing doorman of the famed restaurant Philippe the Original — who, by the way, is twenty years her junior. She is quoted to have told friends, ‘I am truly in love with him. It’s a meeting of minds, not birthdays that matters.’”
This was too much for Jon. He took out a map of the United States and pinned it to the wall of his salon. Aiming, he threw a dart. It landed on Derbyline, Vermont, a town on the border with Canada.
During the two years Jon lived and worked in Derbyline, he built quite a following amongst the locals who got a kick out of having their hair ‘done’ by none other than Jon of San Francisco, at a fraction of the rate Jon had charged his clients in the Bay area. Among his clients were society matrons driving, or flying, from Montreal, Boston, New York, and from as far away as Washington. At first, it was word of mouth — neighbors talking at the fish counter in the local supermarket or post office. And it wasn’t that Jon charged only fifteen dollars for a cut — more for a rinse or a dye job — whereas in San Francisco Jon had charged a minimum of one hundred and fifty dollars for a basic cut, and up to two hundred and seventy-five dollars for ‘the works.’
No. It wasn’t the fifteen dollars, although it certainly helped to defray the additional travel costs for Mable Bush who travelled from Boston monthly; and for Whilimene Vandervan who flew up from New York; and it made it affordable for Melissa Côté — no, not of the Côtés of Newport, Rhode Island, but one of twelve children of Sally Côté who lived in a trailer park outside of Newport, Vermont, descended from itinerant loggers who migrated in the 19th century from Trois Rivières, Québec; and for Lucerne Beauchemin, a check-out clerk at the local Aubuchon Hardware store; and for Linda Potter, a waitress at the North-East Diner on Route 15.
No. It wasn’t the fifteen dollars Jon charged. Jon had agonized over how much he could charge and make a go of it in an area where the population of cows exceeded that of the local inhabitants, and the mean family income barely equaled that of the nationwide poverty level. But then, Jon had to compare the cost of living in America’s North-East Kingdom to that of San Francisco. Where else, his mother told him, could you entertain ten for a sit-down dinner, pick your own centerpiece that afternoon from the neighboring field, and have two in staff who charged eight-fifty an hour and thanked you at the end of the night? That alone was compensation for the deprivations of living amongst so many cows, overweight humanity, and discarded vehicles, she constantly reminded him.
No. The Mable Bushes, Whilimene Vandervans, Melissa Côtés, Lucern Beauchmins, and Linda Potters came to Jon because … well, because Jon made them feel … special.
Mable Bush — distantly related to Presidents — was the first of Jon’s society clients when he moved from San Francisco to Derbyline in America’s Northeast Kingdom. Mable heard of Jon from an old — let’s not be too specific, for Mable never discussed age with anyone, not even with her hairstylist — from an old friend living in the Bay area. Mable wanted something different, different from her friend Gretchen Moore who everyone mistook for Mable even though Gretchen was at least six months older than Mable, if a day.
Whillimene Vandervan saw Mable at the While House reception for the “2022 Sung Heros” — Americans who had amassed the most money in the shortest time, a list being constantly updated which could be visited on its website, www.greed.com, a website so popular with Americans that its ‘hits’ exceeded Hollywood star gazing and visits to airport runways, as America’s favorite pastimes.
With a girth that rivaled Chubby Checker’s, and a nimbleness akin to a Lipizzaner stallion, Whillimene parted her way — like Charlton Heston as Moses leading the Israelites in the Red Sea — through the throng, sidetracked only by the hors d’oeuvres prepared by her favorite caterers, Albert et Michel, for she never missed any opportunity to feast on Albert’s mini crabmeat Napoléons and on Michel’s goose liver blinis smothered in his own concoction of blueberry crème anglaise, until, breathless and with fingers stained from blueberry crème anglaise, for, Whillimene, in her excitement, had forgotten to take a serviette, she met Mable head on, almost collapsing onto Mable’s ample bosom, but, fortunately for Mable, grabbing Mable by her arms enshrouded in a pale écru-colored satin wrap, now a little smudged with a somewhat anemic blueberry hue.
“I must know where you had your hair cut, immediately, now, this very instant, before I have another of Michel’s simply divine blinis. I’m off to Canyon Ranch — no, not the one in Lennox — in the morning … one more blini won’t matter … but where, who — perhaps I’ll put off Canyon Ranch a day or two … another blini? Thank you, yes … but where, Mable, who? He can’t be local; I’ve been to everyone, just everyone. You haven’t been naughty, have you, you naughty thing you. You have, haven’t you, been to someone I don’t know, someone no one knows, someone you found … yes, that’s it? You found him, but where, and if you don’t tell me now, this very instant, I’ll stand here all night … yes, well, another blini won’t make any difference, thank you. But Mable, you must, you owe me, you simply must let me in on your secret, because it’s a secret, isn’t it? No one else knows, and I won’t tell a soul, not a soul ….”
And that’s how Whillimene Vandervan came to Jon, taking JetBlue from Kennedy to Burlington, where she hired Peg’s Pickup to transport her the ninety minutes it took to drive from Burlington’s International airport to Jon’s salon on Main Street, in Derbyline.
One morning, Jon opened his computer and saw that there were five new messages, from Mable Bush, Whillimene Vandervan, Melissa Côté, Lucerne Beauchemin, and Linda Potter.
After Mable last left Jon’s salon, not only did she not look like Gretchen Moore of the Hampton supermarket Moores who everyone in Chestnut hill said looked just like Mable’s sister — her older sister — from their cars — silver Lexuses with white leather upholstery — to their nails which they both had done by Jacques on Newbury Street — but she found she no longer had much in common with Gretchen and had promptly traded in her silver Lexus with the white upholstery for a red Audi TT coupe. No, after Jon cut her hair, Mable no longer resembled her ex-best friend, Gretchen Moore, especially now that she’s seen tooting around Boston in her new red Audi TT. Oh, and she wanted to tell Jon that she had changed parties — political parties. She no longer felt the need to be a Republican just because she was related to Presidents. She decided to join the Democrats and, guess what? She’s the Democratic candidate for Governor in the upcoming state election!
And Whillimene, immediately after her last appointment with Jon when he cut her hair, decided she really didn’t need Canyon Ranch and didn’t have any guilt ordering Michel’s blinis to be air freighted to her in New York every other day, because you just couldn’t spoil yourself too much — at least not every day; just every other day.
Melissa Côté of the itinerant logger Côtés, after her last visit to Jon, traded in her Coachman for a vintage Airstream, but decided to remain in the same trailer park in Newport, Vermont, since she had prepaid her rent for three months.
Lucerne Beauchemin, looking in the washroom mirror on returning to Aubuchon Hardware store after her last appointment with Jon, decided right then and there to quit and become a waitress, a desire that had consumed her ever since she had been runner-up to that cow, Bessie Stills, as Milking Queen at the Champlain County Fair four years before.
And Linda Potter, after her last cut, ran off with the driver for Casalla, the local garbage disposal company.
Jon closed his computer, exhausted. What was he to do?
It was a lucky day for Jon when Dr. Harwood — out of nowhere and waving a blank cheque — appeared on his doorstep in Derbyline, helping him make the decision to move — move on in his life, move his salon, move away from Mable Bush, from Whillimene Vandervan, from Melissa Côté, from Lucerne Beauchemin, from Linda Potter, and from the dozens of others who booked him six months in advance, allowing Jon the luxury of letting his receptionist go, thus lowering his overhead to a pittance of what his salon had cost him in San Francisco.
But where was Jon to go, with the contents of his apartment in San Francisco and of his beach house minutes from Big Sur that he’d schlepped across the continent to Derbyline, Vermont, and now with the odds and ends he’d accumulated to fill his house on Main Street, for houses in Vermont, especially in the Northeast Kingdom where winters are long — very, very long — and cold — very, very cold — were large — very, very large to accommodate all those children, lots of children, scads of children and often cows and goats, not to mention chickens — lots of chickens — and ducks, and the occasional pigeon, too?
Jon hadn’t chosen to move to Vermont from San Francisco. He had thrown a dart at a map of the United States, the dart landing on Derbyline. Why not now that he’d decided to move away from Derbyline, throw another dart?
This time it landed on Taos, New Mexico, a place about as familiar to Jon as Derbyline had been two years before.
When he arrived in Taos, Jon was uncertain whether he wanted another salon. He would sit in the house in Taos he had purchased with the money he had received from the sale of his Derbyline home to the doctor who happened to be walking by, considering his options.
Jon could do nothing. That was an option he had never considered. Nobody — not even his mother — had suggested it. Why not? After all, he had worked all his life — well, most of his life if you subtract the eighteen months he had spent in outward bound in his late teens trying to decide whether life was worth living; and the three years in his mid 20s he had spent at the Kripalu Meditation Center trying to find himself; and the two and a half years during his early 30s when he lived on a Kibbutz thinking he might become a Jew; and the depressions between each of these episodes in his life, because they were episodes, not to be confused with reality. Reality was his mother.
Doing nothing was definitely an option.
Or, he could take up painting … or pottery … or writing ... and join one of the dozens of painting clubs, pottery workshops, or writing clinics that spout up everywhere in New Mexico, like goldenrod back in Vermont, and just about as difficult to control. Jon liked to paint, but he hadn’t painted in quite some time, not since …. Now, he couldn’t remember, but it had to have been a long, long time …. Yes, that was it … when he was seeing Dr. Froid in San Francisco at the Institute for Emotional Disorders and Dr. Froid had asked Jon to represent, on paper with watercolors, his feelings toward both his parents, first separately, as individuals, and then as a couple, on one large canvass.
Yes, he could definitely take up painting again. That certainly was an option.
And then there was the cutting, rinsing, and dying hair, and for that Jon needed another salon. That’s when Jon decided to use his kitchen sink.
At the beginning, when Jon had only the occasional client — his cleaning lady, Mary Louise, a Bryn Mawr graduate, educated to dissect worms and centipedes, but who abandoned biological research in the ‘60s to join the stragglers from the flower-children movement and as a release from the confines of the laboratory and the world of men, eventually settling in Taos in the early ‘80s, but then abandoning the movement.
And there was Jon’s real estate agent, Lucy Lynne, lovely to look at — at least for the first twenty minutes, after which you noticed her eyes never seemed to look at you ... well, not quite at you but not at you in that way that you looked at her, really looked at her because she was very attractive and you wanted her to look at you in the same way, to look at you, really look at you, to meet your eyes, to meet them in every way, not just in a real estate sort of way, but every way, without boundaries, boundaries that have always existed, in a primordial way, without the layers of the women’s liberation movement, women’s suffrage, Betty Freiden and Margaret Sanger, just you and her, seeing each other for the first time in the house you will buy because of those first twenty minutes when the world appeared clear and clean and devoid of layers, layers that always appear when those first twenty minutes evaporate and reality comes into your vision and you realize you may not want to live in this house after all but you’ve signed the agreement to purchase and have given Lucy Lynne the deposit cheque and there was no going back, back in time, back to the innocence that was yours before your dart landed on Taos, and your life changed once again.
With all the demands on him — demands by his accountant to settle his IRS investigation, demands by his mother to find a house nearby for her so that she could move as soon as possible to be as close to him as possible with or without her current companion as Jon had lost track of the number of husbands after the seventh, his mother recycling husbands by having a past husband bridge the gap between husbands — Jon had little time to even think of a salon, but the thought was a constant irritation, like a tickle in the back of your throat that just won’t go away, and now that Jon was being asked to cut hair, he felt he must make an effort to come to a decision.
That’s when Jon opened his salon smack in the middle of Main Street.
Jon began work at 7:00 in the morning, and he often didn’t return home until 9:00 in the evening. First, he needed his coffee, then his protein shake, to get him through the grueling first four hours, when he would take a brief break to eat a salad of mesclun mix and pan-seared tempeh with peanut sauce.
Jon had become a creature of habit, and he placed his habits ahead of his clients, his friends, his accountant, even ahead of his mother. No one could say of Jon that he wasn’t single-minded, and this trait is what impressed his clients and his friends. At 47, he had yet to impress his mother.
Jon liked his habits. No matter what happened during the day: cancelled appointments; calls from his accountant concerning the IRS audit for the years when he was at the pinnacle of his career, raking in too much cash to record; or the occasional irritating inconvenience of a misguided dye job, the result of his near total color-blindness — Jon could count on his habits. They were like his friends — no, better than his friends as he could rely on their never failing him no matter what.
Take his habit of walking from his salon in Taos — Jon called the place he cut hair, a salon, as he had come from San Francisco where anyone who spent more than $150 for a cut, called it a salon — to the espresso stand a block away, owned by his new friend and client, Jane. Every day, Jon had a double espresso at Jane’s stand after his first three appointments and before his late morning appointments. Jon needed — not just needed, craved — his double espresso. When Jane wasn’t at her stand, Jon knew — more than knew, his whole being resounded in the knowledge — that his late morning appointments would be disastrous, not just so-so, but complete failures.
To Jon, that was what a habit was — something you could reply on completely. Even when habits relied on other people, they must never fail you. Jon counted on their being; they were his to have, to hold, and to cherish.
Jon cut Jane’s hair once a month and freshened it up every week or two, depending on whether Jane’s husband, Josh, was in town or on location. Josh was an actor — actually, a part-time character actor — when the script called for a native American, Josh being 50% Cherokee on his mother’s side, and an equal split between Polynesian and Jewish on his father’s side. His dark, Mediterranean skin, clothed his native American heritage like a Saville Row suit. He was the perfect choice whenever a director needed an actor with star qualities, even when the part was no more than a walk-on.
At times Josh’s fame grated on Jane’s nerves. She was constantly being asked by local writers — New Mexico has more self-acclaimed artists and writers per square mile than any other state in the Union — to have Josh read their scripts, instead of sending them off to Josh’s agent as any writer would do if he didn’t know the actor’s wife, a knowledge gained from the espressos, cappuccinos, cafés lattes with vanilla syrup, and double café lattes, ordered by those who used Jane’s outdoor tables as their Deux Magots and Dôme rolled into one.
No. They sat there by the hour, day in and day out, taking up the space of four, five, at times six customers a day, nursing their double café lattes, and pouring over their cherished manuscripts which they invariably presented to Jane to have Josh read in the hopes that some producer would find theirs more exciting, more original, more commercial than any other manuscript sent via the normal channels. This irritated Jane, not just the inconvenience of having to be an intermediary, but the presumption that a double café latte — even with vanilla syrup — gave them the right to a table for the better part of their day. She was considering charging by the table, especially for these freeloaders who ranked so prominently in New Mexico’s population. Had they been real native Americans, or at least as much native American as Josh, and looked the part, Jane wouldn’t’ve minded so much, as tourists would have found the ‘scene’ at her espresso stand at least colorful. These were merely hacks from the East, throwbacks to the 60s, with dyed ponytails or dreadlocks — those with any hair left — who hadn’t yet realized that writing bad movie scripts was insufficient passage in life — at least at a table at her outdoor espresso stand.
And then there was Tess. Tess was another of Jon’s clients as well as a friend. She was a local potter who, to pay the rent, hosted the afternoon talk show on the local TV station. Tess was married to Simon, a carpenter who specialized in Adobe-style furniture and who wrote poetry, as yet unpublished, but with great promise, according to Tess. (Simon didn’t hang out at Jane’s espresso stand.) Tess’s tresses were the talk of Taos — long, down to her waist when she let them down, a russet gold that reminded everyone of peaches and golden delicious apples.
Jon met Tess through Simon, or, to be more exact, as a result of Jon’s real estate agent who suggested he have Simon make some real Adobe-style furniture to round out, so to speak, the bits and pieces of furniture Jon had left over from his apartment in San Francisco, the beach house near Big Sur he had shared with three friends each of whom had left without saying goodbye or even wishing Jon good luck, and the house he had purchased in the northern most part of Vermont and which Jon had sold for his asking price to a doctor who was, himself, relocating and happened to see it and decided he wanted it.
And in Taos, Jon met Peter — Peter Côté, no relation to Melissa Côté of the itinerant logger Côtés back in Newport in America’s Northeast Kingdom, Vermont. There are many branches to the Côté family and no one knew anymore, whether — or who — was related to whom.
Peter was a massage therapist Jon had fallen madly in love with the very first time Peter touched Jon’s aching body — aching from moving all the furniture he dragged across the continent, first to his home in Derbyline, Vermont, and then to Taos, as a result of the fate of the dart. Peter helped Jon forget — forget the natterings of the Mable Bushes, the Whillimene Vandervans, Melissa Côté who was no relation of Peter’s, the Lucerne Beauchemins, the Linda Potters and all the other cuts and rinses and dye jobs, while Jon lay on Peter’s massage table dreaming of nights — future nights and days, lazy days — in Peter’s bed every other week and in his own bed when he and Peter weren’t in Peter’s bed, soothed by the magic of Peter’s hands until he actually fell asleep.
Yes. Jon was truly thankful the dart landed on Taos. Well, actually, to be truthful — and, though Jon didn’t want to admit he had always been truthful, from the time when, at four years old, he was found by his mother comparing his faucet to his sister’s drain, and wasn’t there hell to be paid that night, but Jon didn’t lie, he just told the truth, his truth, that had wanted — not just wanted but was desperate ... yes, that was the very word he used when he was four years old — desperate to become a plumber and fill his sister’s drain with his faucet, just like the man who visited twice a week when daddy was out of town.
No. There weren’t Peters; there was only one Peter — Peter Côté, with hands of velvet and the touch … well, let’s just say there was only one Peter.
Jane and Tess and Peter, who also had his hair styled by Jon, were all his friends as well as his clients, and Jon loved each and every one of them … each in her or his own special way.
Then, one day Jon asked Jane if he could cut her hair differently — not that he hadn’t done a nice job before and he knew Jane truly appreciated the care he took and all that, but well, he felt she could use a different look — not that he was criticizing her look … no, not that … but he was tired of the look, leaving him uninspired and a little depressed and he really didn’t like taking valium so often and he now found himself taking a small dose before Jane arrived for her appointment. So, would she consider his changing her hair style?
Jon had done this before just before leaving Vermont — to Mable Bush, to Whillimene Vandervan, to Melissa Côté, to Lucerne Beauchemin, to Linda Potter — and now Jon felt the urge resurge in his gut and he knew that if he didn’t change the hair styles of his now new client-friends he would require ever-increasing doses of valium, and he knew, from previous experiences when he was going through his growing up stages in his teens, in his mid-twenties, in his late thirties, that too much valium leads to other problems, and now that he was in his not quite, perhaps pushing later forties, he didn’t want these problems to reemerge, causing him to relocate somewhere else — throwing another dart and move all his furniture now increased by Simon’s Adobe-style pieces — and have his mother show up, to live near him with one of her recycled husbands until she was able to restart her life with someone new.
And then Jon broached the subject with Tess whose russet-golden tresses his hands itched to redo, redo the do she had had since her 16th birthday, the only way Simon had known her — aside from, well, you know — her local trademark but which Jon believed didn’t really suit her personality — not a potter’s cut, no, nor the hairstyle of a TV talk show host, even if the show barely reached the outskirts of Taos with a viewing audience of less than fifteen thousand if you include tarot card readers, acupuncturists between needles, and local native Americans not involved in rain dances during the tourist season.
With Mary Louise, Jon didn’t ask; he just cut.
Lucy Lynne was a different story. Lucy had this theory that her clients asked for her because she had this look, a look that differentiated her from all the other real estate agents in Taos, a look that told you that Lucy meant business — your business, no one else’s business, business between you and her — and Lucy meant to keep it strictly business between you and her and that meant that her hairstyle had to remain unaltered, not a hair out of place, not to much nor too little hairspray. No, nothing.
Jon didn’t change Lucy Lynne’s hairstyle.
Peter was, well, Peter was a long story. Peter and Jon were in an ego/alter-ego relationship, and their rôles kept changing so that there were days — actually nights — when Jon couldn’t remember if he was his ego or his alter ego, and Peter was Jon’s alter ego or his own ego, or whether Jon was his own alter ego and Peter Jon’s ego, and it wasn’t simply a matter of rôle changing, because rôle changing Jon had done in previous relationships. It was really a matter of knowing, not what you were but who you were, for knowing who you were was very relevant to knowing how to act and how to react to the person you slept with, especially if this other person was some nights your ego and, other nights, your alter ego, which made all the difference in the world on your decision as to what outfit to wear — or whether to wear any outfit at all.
So, Jon decided to cut Peter’s hair while Peter slept, and to give him a look that Jon had always wanted for himself but, before he met Peter, had never been able to bring himself to do, as he, subconsciously, reserved this look for his alter ego and before Peter, Jon had never accustomed himself to play the rôle of his alter ego, but now, with Peter switching back and forth and, on occasion, forth and back, Jon found himself being his alter ego as well as his ego, often the same night. Jon had to choose the night when Peter fell asleep and couldn’t reverse rôles, which took several days as Peter kept assuming the rôle of Jon’s ego, or switching back and forth, between ego and alter ego … and forth and back, like a quick-change artist, confusing Jon to the point of not knowing who he — Jon — was — his ego or his alter ego — and he didn’t want to cut Peter’s hair not knowing if Peter was Jon’s ego or his alter ego.
One night, after this switching back and forth and forth and back had been going on for hours, Jon, tired of trying to keep up with being his ego one minute and his alter ego the next, made a decision: he cut Peter’s hair — and hoped for the best.
All this frenzy of activity happened a week ago. A similar frenzy of activity had preceded Jon’s departure from Derbyline. Jon just left — no goodbyes, no hugs, no introductions to another hairstylist — simply picked up and left — left Mable, left Whillimene, left Melissa, left Lucerne, left Linda, left his mother and her recycled husband, left Derbyline in America’s Northeast Kingdom. Left for a new life in Taos, New Mexico.
The phone rang. Jon was tired, worn out from the frenzy of the latest haircuts — wiped out, exhausted. He had put everything he had into those last cuts, and there was just nothing left. He had laid bare his soul when cutting those last cuts, and he didn’t want to answer the phone — not now, not after lunch, not tomorrow. Never.
But Jon had neglected to put his phone on answering service and it kept ringing — ringing, and ringing … until he picked up the receiver hoping it was the wrong number or a telemarketer and he could just hang up
But it was Jane.
“I left Josh.”
“That’s nice. What time is it?” “Jon, you don’t understand. I left Josh. It’s 6:45.”
“Jane, I heard you the first time. You left Josh. So? You leave Josh every morning when you go to the espresso stand, and he leaves you every time he goes for an audition, and you leave him when you need to buy groceries, and he leaves you to walk the dog, and you leave him when you visit your mother. So? Why did you call me this early? You know I can’t function until I have an espresso … and you don’t open until 8:00.”
“Jon. I … left … Josh. L … E … F … T. I told Josh he had to find another place to live.”
“Jane, I don’t like to quibble, but it sounds to me like Josh left you — if I understand your meaning of the word ‘left,’ in this instance to mean that you remained in the house and he left you in the house to ….”
“Damn it, Jon, shut up. Stop thinking and for once listen. I left Josh; we’ve separated; we’re going to get a divorce. I wanted to tell you since you’re my best friend … and it happened after you cut my hair last week.”
“What happened after I cut your hair?”
“Jon, this feeling, this feeling of total liberation, this feeling of not needing … not needing my espresso stand, not needing my yoga classes, not needing to speak to my mother every day at 1:00, not needing Josh. I feel different, Jon, so different and I wanted you to be the first to know.”
Jane hung up but not until Jon was awake, awake but not functioning and knowing that he would not be able to function as he would not be able to have any more espressos because Jane had just told him that she was leaving for Buenos Aires that day to take-up Argentine tango and the espresso stand would not open — not that day, not tomorrow, not next week, not next month. Never.
The phone rang again.
“Yes, Jane, you want me to drive you to the airport …. Oh, it’s you, Tess. I thought it was Jane. She just rang up to tell me ….”
“Jon, I really don’t care what Jane rang up to tell you because I have extraordinary news for you.”
“So did Jane. She told me ….”
“Jon, my news is simply … well, simply wonderful. You’ll never guess, not in a million years. Guess.” “You’re right, Tess. I’ll never guess in a million years, so tell me.”
“I’m going back to graduate school. I’ve enrolled in UNM, and I’ll be taking a degree in advanced pottery. I’m so excited, and Jon … are you there, Jon?”
“Yes, Tess, I’m here, but it’s really early and I haven’t had my protein shake or my espresso and it looks like I won’t be getting my espresso so I’m a bit on edge this morning.”
“Well, Jon, I have you to thank; you, just you, Jon. After you cut my hair last week, I looked in the mirror and I said, “Tess, you just get right down to UNM’s advance admissions office, girl, and you sign up for that degree you always wanted.” Yes, Jon, that’s exactly what I said to myself while looking at myself in the mirror and saw myself, the real me, for the first time since before my sweet sixteenth birthday party.”
At this point, Jon was too exhausted, worn out, pooped, to drink a protein shake. Instead, he turned on his computer to catch up on e-mails, something he’d neglected to do since arriving in Taos.
He heard a key in his door.
“Hello? Anyone in? Jon, are you there?”
“Mary Louise? How nice to see you at 6:54 AM. But it’s Thursday; you come Friday.” Jon thought for a moment. Perhaps it was Friday and he had slept ‘round the clock. Whatever!
“Jon, are you there? It’s me, Mary Louise. I know it’s not my day, but I had to tell you my news.”
“It’s okay, Mary Louise. I thought you were the Easter bunny, early. I’ve already had calls from Jane and Tess, so a visit from you, even if it’s not your day, is just what I need to make my day.” “Oh, Jon, you’ll never guess, not in a million years. Guess.”
“Mary Louise, is this déjà vu or something? Have you been talking to Tess, or what?”
“Oh, Jon, I’ll tell you. After you cut my hair last Friday when I was here to clean your house, I got up my nerve and entered a chat room.”
“You what?”
“I got up my nerve and entered a chatroom. But don’t worry. It’s perfectly safe. My best friend, Heloise — you know, the palm reader in town — gave me the address and anyway, you don’t use your own name, silly, so no one knows who, or where, you are. Well, I entered this chat room and guess? I met this absolutely heavenly woman.”
“If you don’t know his — I mean, her — name, or anything about him — I mean, her — how do you know he’s — I mean, she’s — heavenly?”
“Oh, Jon, where have you been? That was last week, after you fixed up my hair. But now it’s been a week ….”
“Six days.”
“Okay, six days later, and I know her name and where she lives and all that, and guess? She asked for my photo.”
“You didn’t send it, did you?”
“Oh, Jon, you’re so old fashioned. Of course I did. Immediately after you cut my hair, I had new photos taken and I sent her one. And guess? She’s coming to visit.”
Jon couldn’t take any more. First Jane, then Tess, and now Mary Louise. Next Mary Louise will be moving to Vermont for a civil union. Where will all this madness end?
Jon turned back to his computer and his emails. Perhaps there’ll be a message from his sister in California telling him all about how adorable his nieces and nephews are, or from his accountant with an update on the IRS investigation. Anything to distract him the madness of this morning.
No messages. None from his sister nor from his accountant, not even from his mother on whom he could always count on for an email about the current recycled husband or heir apparent.
Jon was now more exhausted than before Jane’s call, with a full day ahead of him — and no espresso. He fell into a trance, and saw his life marching … where? What was left? And, where was Peter? Why hadn’t he seen or heard from Peter since the night he cut Peter’s hair?
Well, fortunately for Jon, Peter wasn’t the only massage therapist in Taos.
01/22/2024
11:42:04 PM