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THE DAY COURAGE SAT IN A BARBER’S CHAIR
“I want you to shave my head.”
This request made in a local barbershop on a cool autumn Saturday might not sound noteworthy. Many men shave their heads. The person speaking that morning, though, was a middle-aged woman.
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My husband, Steve, and I loved to navigate our small town of Grover Beach on foot. After breakfast that morning, we had decided to stop at Beach Barbers so Steve could get a haircut. The shop was crowded, but we found seats and passed the time listening to the chatter of other patrons and enjoying the “blast from the past”—wall to wall antiques—oldies but goodies, every one.
An hour had passed when a handsome couple who I guessed to be in their mid-fifties came in. She was a bit pale looking, but otherwise they appeared to be in good health. They stood inside the door, so still they might have been mannequins. Then the man reached over and patted his companion on the shoulder. She stepped over to the closest barber, who happened to be Al, the owner.
The woman cleared her throat several times before she spoke. The chatter dropped a few decibels and several customers looked up. A feeling of suspense seemed to settle over the shop. The other barbers stood still with their scissors and combs suspended a few inches from the heads of their clients. It was as though someone had pushed a pause button.
“I want you to shave my head,” she said in a quavering voice. “You see, I have cancer. My doctor believes that I can be cured with chemo and radiation. When I started treatment, nothing happened, but then my hair started to fall out.”
By now I was holding my breath. I looked over at Steve, whose moist eyes mirrored my own. You could have heard the flutter of a butterfly’s wings.
“I’ve decided that I will get well. But I hate being sick. Every morning when I wake up and see handfuls of hair on my pillow, it reminds me that I’m sick. I thought if I got my head shaved, I could feel eccentric and bold rather than sick.”
The man who had just sat down in Al’s chair, got up and stepped to the side with a gesture as graceful as a bullfighter sweeping his cape. Al lowered his chair and motioned for the woman to sit. He encased her neck with tissue wrap and then draped her with a cape.
The other two barbers finished with their clients. They paid, and then found a seat. It seemed that they wanted to share the moment with this courageous woman. Al began clipping. My scalp tingled as I imagined the little hair follicles hanging on to my head for dear life. I swiped at the tears I could no longer hold back.
The woman’s partner stood close to the chair. His face revealed what might have been a mixture of love, as well as fear of what lay ahead. I wondered if he had tried to talk her out of her decision, perhaps suggesting they make an appointment after hours so her shearing could be done in privacy. Why choose a barbershop instead of a beauty salon? Perhaps it was because a beauty shop is a place where women go with the expectation of a lovely hairdo. This woman had no such expectation.
There was no sign of a wig, scarf or hat. I shuddered in the face of my own discomfort and fear of ridicule, at the same time that I admired and celebrated her courage and determination.
Al, who had kept her turned away from the mirror, whisked off the cape when he finished. She stood up and then, gathered her courage and turned to face the mirror.
She gave a small gasp, gently patted the tops and sides of her bald head, and then turned to face the other patrons. I might have seen a tear glistening in her eye. Everyone stood and clapped.
“Now, it’s my turn,” her husband said, as he climbed into the chair, and whisked off his baseball cap to reveal thick, curly hair. Soon his salt and pepper hair joined hers on the floor.
“Anyone else want to join...” Al looked at the woman expectantly.
“Marjorie and Vic,” she said.
“Anyone else want to join Marjorie and Vick?” he asked.
A gentleman with a narrow fringe of hair walked toward Al’s chair.
“Don’t have much to lose,” he said. “Boy, will my wife be sorry she sent me for a trim.”
Another round of applause followed as Marjorie and Vic exited the barbershop arm in arm.
Judythe Guarnera is a graduate of the “Breaking Into Print” Writing Program, a freelance writer and a mediator. Her essays have been featured in local publications and in an anthology. She received an award in the SLO NightWriter annual contest in 2012 and is a past winner in the Lillian Dean Writing Competition. Much of her writing is focused on connection through communication. Judythe is a member of SLO NightWriters, the Premier Writing Organization on the Central Coast since 1988.
Email: Judythe Guarnera
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