Odd Saturday Observations

Saturday morning I had to pick up husband from the car repair shop and offered to take him to get a much needed haircut at the barbershop. This isn’t a salon, but a barbershop that probably looks identical to when it was opened 50 plus years ago.

I sat in a “waiting” chair reading an article in the New York Post about Paris Hilton (ugh), while husband sat in one barber chair and a bald headed man sat in the other.

That’s when I saw a haircut that was more performance art than an actual haircut.

The man who had no hair, did have a small fringe of growth that adorned his pate in the manner one might think of as a “Monk’s hair-do”. Just a two inch curve of hair at the very bottom of his hairline.

The old barber…took out his clippers and within 30 seconds had shaved the fringe down to a short, very short, buzz. Done.

Wow, I thought, and that poor guy has to pay 15 bucks for a 30 second haircut!

No, the barber was not done.

He then took out a pair of scissors and started to open and close them, snip snip snip, metal smacking metal, over and over around the man’s head. I mean around his head. He never got near the actual hairs that were left on this guy’s head, instead, the snipping scissors were held a few inches from the man’s scalp.

I was stunned. I kept watching. This was an example of the Emperor’s new clothes.

The scissor-snipping was either a way to make the guy feel like he really got a haircut for his money, or a way to extend the time of the haircut (you can snip a lot of imaginary hair and not do any damage at all) or just a kind act by the barber to make the bald man feel like he had so much hair it was going to take a lot of snipping to get it all cut.

I kept wondering why the bald man didn’t realize the ruse, or why the barber would not be embarrassed to keep scissoring the air wildly when others could see he was only snipping at the air? I’m still amazed.

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Then off to the cleaners. The week before, husband had dropped off a vintage skirt of mine to be cleaned for the winter and we needed to pick it (and his shirts) up. This skirt is a mini-skirt, from Ann Taylor, probably 15 years old? Not sure. I got it in Goodwill. It is very tiny, very short…I wear it with black tights and it’s really cute – a gray wool flannel with black velvet appliqué.

So he goes in to pick it up and the owner, who doesn’t speak English very well, says: I don’t know-- to charge – who skirt this Sharl skirt? Fooman skirt?

Husband thinks Sharl skirt? Fooman skirt? Hmm

He wonders if that’s the name of a certain style skirt or fabric…he’s a guy after all. He repeats our last name in case the owner is looking for this information. Nope, not what he’s after.

The owner is adamant he must know before he can add up the bill. Husband asks what’s the difference? Owner says Sharl skirt cheaper.

Husband gives up and says: it’s a Sharl skirt. Owner nods and rings it up on the cash register.

When he returns to the car where I’m waiting, he asks me about my skirt…straight-faced he wants to know if it’s a Sharl or Fooman skirt. He tells me about the conversation with the owner.

First, I look at him like he’s nuts…repeat in my mind what he’s just said and burst out laughing.

I finally got it; the owner wanted to know if it was a child’s skirt or a woman’s skirt.

Frankly I don’t think that should matter. It’s a damn small skirt is all I have to say.


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Saturday night I’m having a cigarette outside a very classy restaurant located in the middle of an urban area which is undergoing renewal, but currently has broken down buildings, bums and debris everywhere, except right in front of this elegant restaurant.

Even the sidewalk in front of the restaurant is a lovely herringbone brick, bedecked with flower boxes and turn of the century faux lamp posts. Inside the huge windows you can see a tuxedoed piano player making lovely music on a full-sized Steinway.

Outside, while I puff, I see a young man, homeless for sure as he’s got so many items of clothing wrapped around his waist, it looked like he was wearing a skirt…a large, Fooman skirt at that.

He has the train tracks of fresh stitches on his eyebrow, crusted over with a reddish black scab, a backpack and a canvas tote.

He scuffles over to me and tells me he has $1.68 in his pocket and wants to buy me a drink!

I had left my purse inside the restaurant and had nothing to give him other than a smile and a no thank you for his invitation, but the contrast between what was inside and what was outside the restaurant’s window made me reflect on the haves and the have nots.

This time I was lucky to be admitted to the haves side of the window, even though I was standing in the area of the have nots. I wish I could have done something for him.

Without a face, homeless is just a word.

It’s going to be a while before I stop thinking of him and wondering: drugs, alcohol, mental illness? What put this young man on the streets and what as a community can we do to help?