lonely havens

The last cut was a bit shorter than expected.

140. William Moore, “Barbershop Rag” (1928). Posted with Final Cut.

Final Cut

The same two barbers — a Greek and an Ecuadorian — have worked here since I became a regular customer about nine years ago. Both are low-key, old-school types who take their time with each customer. (Neither of them knows my name, but they know me better than a lot of people…)

The Ecuadorian, who tends to cut much shorter, will spritz his customers with water before going in with the scissors. The Greek, meanwhile, never touches the water sprayer, and he has a lighter touch with the straight razor. To check that he cut your sideburns evenly, the Greek will stand behind you and place his right index finger under your right sideburn and his left index finger under the left sideburn, and then glance up at the mirror to see if his fingers line up. He always looks dead serious about it, as if he’s pointing two guns to your head.

Does this place qualify as a lonely haven? No, it doesn’t; it’s a quiet place, but fundamentally social. In a good barbershop, you cannot get a haircut without getting to know the barber. Even if you say nothing, the barber will talk to you until you cave. Even if you’re a loner, you will cave…

The barbers of Princeton Barber Shop have known about my plan to ditch this town for a while now. Back in July, the Ecuadorian (a former Washington Heights resident) had warned me about Brooklyn.

“You gotta be careful, maybe you gonna get shot over there,” he had said.

When I walked in last Thursday, the Ecuadorian was lounging idly in his barber’s chair, while the Greek was sitting next to the cash register, reading the Globe. They don’t say much to one another when business is slow.

“This-a-gonna-be-the-last-one?” the Greek asked me.

“Yeah — looks like it.”

The Ecuadorian dusted off the chair for me. 

“Same as-a usual,” he said. “Short.”

I looked at myself in the the mirror and nodded. I have seen that face in this particular mirror for nine years. Maybe you can’t tell when you look at that face, but it has been a trying nine years. I have worked very hard at hiding it from you.

The buzzing of the clippers droned in and out above my right ear. Suddenly I remembered something: There’s only one haven left that I need to add to the list.

These Carolina girls are occasionally stubborn.

139. Etta Baker, “Carolina Breakdown.” Posted with Part.

Part

After a farewell drink at a bar near the old office, I suggest to Smitty that she visit me sometime.

“Why would I want to go to New York?” she says. “It smells like trash. Even worse, it’s full of New Yorkers.”

She’ll come around.

In certain advanced dialects, time is a two-syllable word.

138. Z.Z. Hill, “You Better Take Time.” Posted with Revisited.

Revisited

It could be another sign of clinginess that I find myself back in Ye Olde Allston for a few days. Had I planned things better, I could have avoided this trip. But now that I’m here, I’ll make the most of it — see some people I didn’t get to say goodbye to, dig up some more stuff that lasts, snag another goroke from Seoul Bakery…

I try not to play this game too often, but I wonder what the people on my mind are thinking about right now. One is plotting to put the moves on some guy — a guy she doesn’t like to mention in front of me. Another is far away from home and annoyed by it because she misses who she has there. And the last might be wondering if I’ve been avoiding her. (No comment…) All of them are worried about time — which just doesn’t seem fair, since they’re all about my age.

I turn the corner at Blanchard’s and a few blocks later my ears are ringing thanks to a road crew that’s ripping up the asphalt along Harvard Ave. It’s nine thirty at night.

Just a few more days, I tell myself. Then I’ll be back home.

I wonder if this song would have been a bigger hit had Harold Burrage substituted the phrase “to let you go” for “to get you back.”

137. Harold Burrage, “Got to Find a Way” (1965). Posted with Fork Test.

Fork Test

Somehow we get to talking about how foreigners pick up American words or phrases. She tells me she has a Russian friend who recently learned how to use goose as a verb (which he finds hilarious)…

There’s a story I consider telling her — about a girl I used to know who heard the phrase “stick a fork in ’em” for the first time. It was probably a TV sports commentator who said it. Anyway, she didn’t get the reference, as the dining utensil of choice in her country was a pair of chopsticks. So I had to explain.

“When you cook something like a steak,” I told her, “you test if it’s done by sticking a fork in it. So if something or someone is ‘done in,’ you say, ‘Stick a fork in ’em.’”

“So silly!” she said. 

But she liked trying out Americanisms in our conversations, and she decided to give this one a try. The first time she used it was while heating a pot of soup. As the soup began to simmer, she looked over at me and said, “I think we can stick fork inside now.”

It took me a few seconds to figure out what she meant. Then I laughed at her.

She frowned. “Why cannot say this way?”

“You need to use it on something else — not food. Something else that’s ‘done,’ or even doomed. Use it as a metaphor.”

“Boo, this one difficult,” she said.

There were more attempts, some better than others. Another one I remember was after she had read the last page of a novel.

“I finish!” she told me. “Now can stick fork inside the book!”

“Uh…that’s better, I guess.”

“Yay! I improve!”

…The woman with the aperol spritz will not get to hear this story. I can think of a couple reasons why I choose not to tell it. First there is the dreaded follow-up question — “So what happened to that girl?” — that I would rather avoid. 

The other reason is more complicated. Ten years ago, I taught some silly American idioms to a girl overseas — a girl who wanted badly for me to stay with her. But I chose to leave. For a long time I was unable to understand the helplessness she felt about it.

But now I kind of understand. Now, sitting at this bar with our fancy cocktails, I really wish my “date” could stick around. It would sound idiotic to her if I were to say those words out loud: “I wish you could stay.” But that’s how I feel, even though I know she’ll leave — even though she’s already gone.

So I’ll skip the story about the fork idiom. Because once I tell her that story, then I know we’re done.

Better to listen.

136. Wynonie Harris, “Keep-a-Talking.” Posted with Mute Button.

Mute Button

I have her cornered at a table to myself, but for some reason the Great Listener is nowhere to be found and the only sub available is the Great Blabber, a third-tier act who is far less interesting. 

“May I interject?” she interjects. “You know what you are? You are girl crazy.”

Girl crazy. No one has called me that before. It worries me a little. Girl crazy? Based on what evidence?