It had taken years of thinking about him, months of searching for him, and weeks of planning to make my way back to where he was -- which turned out to be about 70 miles and 40 years away from where he was the last time I laid eyes on him. Back then we were both in our 20's. He was a hairdresser in a salon located on one corner of my college campus, and I was one of his regular clients and fuck-buddies. Now, four decades later, the sign on the shop door no longer read "Second Glance" (the name of the hair salon he used to work in), but it should have -- because I was here to have a second glance and get my second chance.
As soon as I pushed the door open and heard the entry chime ring, I saw in an instant that a lot had changed. His hair was white now, not the gold-flecked brown I remembered. There was a beard where there used to be clean-shaven cheeks. His body was thicker, heftier by about 80 pounds. I had no problem with any of that. I liked the solid thickened look of him that struck my eyes when I stepped in and dropped down onto one of the aluminum chairs in the reception area. As I sat there waiting to be his "last appointment of the day," I looked around the room. He had his own shop now, even if it was just a one-man one-chair operation.
The linoleum on the floor was worn and the pattern of it had been rubbed out by the many feet that had tromped around his stylist's station. The sun barely leaked in through the half-open blinds. It was obvious he was having trouble making ends meet. Sure, he was surviving as an independent contractor -- but the career he must have hoped for hadn't played out the way he dreamed. Everything in the room, including his eyes and his gut, were sagging. I felt sorry for him. And the vulnerability that emanated from him was a lightning bolt right to my crotch. It excited me. This was not a fully-satisfied man secure in his own success. This was a man who understood that the ground under his feet was not only unsteady, but sloping downward. It gave people like me who wanted to take something from him tangible power over him, and that was working on me as an aphrodisiac. I knew he couldn't say no. Wouldn't say no. I knew I would get what I wanted from him.
As I sat waiting in the cold metal chair, I fixed my eyes on his body as he moved around the client he was working on. He was listening to the guy talk, making little affirming noises, now and then saying something quick and flattering in an attempt to pump up the tip that he hoped was coming. His hands were sure and precise, moving quickly and deftly as he shaped the cut on the man's head. Not a young man. Not old either. Not handsome, not ugly. Not well dressed, not badly dressed. Not anything much, actually. Just there. Just a guy getting his hair cut. Just a guy talking about how he'd outfoxed his young boss at work that day, chuckling at his own cleverness. Just another head of hair to trim.
Gene's body moved like a billowing curtain in the wind as he worked. His body made a million tiny adjustments as he cut away the growth -- lean left, lean right, bring the elbow up, move the comb, pick up the clippers, put them down, his shoulders and forearms working together to keep the scissors flying round and round the head. It was like watching a master gardener trim a recalcitrant shrub, forcing the bushy shape into a manicured sculpture. His hands were thick and spotted, but moved delicately and precisely. The stylist's apron flowed around his dancing body, and the shorn hair fell on it and then dropped to the ground, as his hips shifted and his weight leant in each necessary direction. Every second I watched him I wanted him more. I knew that body. I knew what it felt like. I knew how my fingers felt when they came in contact with it. I knew the patches of bare skin that interrupted the pelt of hair that covered so much of it. I knew the shape of his shoulders in my palms. Most of all I knew what lay below his waist, and how it felt pressed against my face and laying on my tongue. It all came back. Every beautiful curve of his body came back. I could see they were still there. Richer and more voluptuous beneath the more padded skin -- but still right there, built into his luscious skeleton.
Even though I had deliberately arrived early, it seemed like I had hardly sat down when I saw Gene unsnap the pale green sheet from his client's neck, pull it carefully aside, and shake it to the floor. Still talking, his client walked up to the cash register, pulled out his wallet, and asked my former lover, "How much do I owe you THIS time?" Gene smiled, named a figure, and then froze for a second when the man said, "Oops! Guess that clears me out for today, bud! Here you go, exactly what you asked for! But I'll catch 'ya next time around -- don't worry, I'll be back!"
Gene's eyes dropped in a moment of frustrated defeat as Mr. Anonymous walked out the door. He lowered his head as he opened the cash register and dropped the single green bill into the drawer. Then -- finally -- he turned his eyes to me.
"Hi, I guess you must be Owen? You're the guy who called for the 6 o'clock appointment, right?"
"Yeah, that's me all right! Thanks for sticking around late to do me tonight. I appreciate it."
"No problem. I often stay open this late or even later -- gotta keep my customers happy, you know!"
"I'm sure you're really good at that. Keeping people happy, that is." And as we walked toward his chair, I added: "At least, I know you
