The irritatingly friendly waiter was waved away with a smile and more than a mote of masked annoyance by the man in the ironically tacky Hawaiian shirt. He sipped the dregs of his beer and returned his attention to the friend of over twenty five years who had just now, after decades of similar drink induced conversations, decided to explain a mystery.
“Yeah, well, it was all because of Clark Gable. You know, that old dude from Gone with the Wind and that submarine movie, Run Silent..”
“..Run Deep. Yeah love that one..”
“Yeah, well, mom was a hairdresser. Started when Dad was still in the Army. She had a little shop in the back of my grandmothers house, saw all the old ladies, blued their hair, permed it, you know. One day, Dan Crenshaw’s father had a heart attack and there was no barber in town. Everyone was starting to look shaggy I guess so under Mr. Crenshaw’s supervision from a wheelchair and with permission from my Dad, Mom filled in at his barber shop. It was a bit of an approved scandal. A woman cutting men’s hair in the mid-sixties.”
“I don’t let men cut my hair…”
“..yes freak, I know that. Anyway, under what was considered “due supervision” she cut men’s hair. All the men in Braxton had their hair cut. The mayor, the police, fire department, transient workers, everyone. Mister Crenshaw was getting pissed off.” He took a long pull of his beer, removed his baseball cap and slicked back his sweat soaked hair with a sigh. “…man that’s hot.”
Trevor stood, loosened the bolt mid way up the umbrella and readjusted it a bit before shuffling his chair a bit closer to the now fully shaded Steve.
“You could have waited for Trish to do that you know.”
“Why wait, I can do it?”
“Dude, you are so unobservant now that you are married. Look, low cut shirt, short skirt, had we complained ever so nicely she would have fixed it for us and we lecherous old bastards could have had something to ogle.”
“I’m not a lecherous old bastard Steve, you are.” Trevor smiled and looked away as the waitress arrived with a free bowl of nacho chips to replace the one they had already emptied. He looked back in time to say “thank you” as she walked away, sashaying as she did.
“You missed it buddy.”
“No, I saw it. The difference is I wasn’t looking for it nor was I making it obvious that I saw.”
Steve flashed a piece of paper with a sideways emoticon-like smiley and a phone number while sneering a bit and raising an eyebrow above the upper edge of his sunglasses. “How is that working for you by the way and has it ever?”
Shaking his head, Trevor merely muttered “continue please.”
Pocketing the slip of paper, Steve returned to the story. “Of course over time, that old b-tard Crenshaw, don’t give me that look Trev, even Dan said he was a wife beating drunk, Jeeze. Over time, he got back on his feet and threatened my mom that she better not take any business back to her shop with her, that it wasn’t right for a woman to cut a mans hair and all that. Dad was away so nothing was said back. One day a few weeks later she was bleaching some skanky chick’s hair when there was a knock at the door. It was Doc Mallory from the funeral home. He walked in, asked if mom wanted a proper job.”
“Hair styling wasn’t proper?”
“I think he meant working for a man, not working for yourself as a mostly single woman in the sixties in small town bum rush Idaho.”
“Gotcha.” He waved his empty glass at Trish who nodded in agreement as she seated an old withered couple dressed to the nines complete with a yappy small dog on a silver leash.
“Beer me too eh? I’m out. So he explains that everyone in town though she was better than Crenshaw and Crenshaw couldn’t do the pre-funeral haircuts anymore as he had to stop work on the dot at four PM every day now.”
“Woah, hold on. Pre-funeral haircuts?”
“Well, think of the math. How often do you get your hair cut.’
“Every three or four weeks I guess.”
“okay, if you dropped dead tomorrow, would you be happy with your hair?”
“Hell no, its been two and a half weeks and I got a crappy cut last time. Its too fluffy on the sides.”
“Exactly. Your hair looks moronic and bad. Everyone can see this, even Trish, right now.’
“hey…!”
“So you get hit by a frigging bus and they cram all your broken bones and such into a suit and drain you and pump you back up and all people see is a suit, and a head. A head with a retarded hair cut.”
“I never said retarded.”
“Nope, I did. There is this place down the road you know. They serve daiquiris while you get the hair cut. Its pretty awesome. They’ll do a shoulder massage for ten extra bucks.”
“Story Steve, its getting hot.”
“Right, well, she says no at first then after my idiot father comes home for the weekend and they have a fight about her cutting mens hair, her being preggers with yours truly, a whack of things, she takes the job. She shows up the next night and starts working as Hairdresser for the Small Town Dead.. ooo eeee oooo!” The last bit was sung with horror movie panache for the entertainment of his drinking companion and the elderly dog owners who had started to give Steve “the look” for his loud chatter.
Trish returned with two beer and sat down for two minutes of rest as she made small talk with Steve. Trevor looked away noting to himself that he and Steve could be the girls father or at least their creepy uncles. Shaking his head as he squinted into the sky, he watched a bird circle in the hot sun above the city. Crow? No, crows didn’t do that. Gull? Maybe. A bit biggish. Hawk? Eagle? Maybe a hawk, maybe a…
“Yo, drink up. Haircut next. Maybe with happy finish! Anywho, Dad went away again and she started working nights at the funeral home. She would take old pictures of people and try to make them look natural, like their most recent selves. She started liking it, ignoring that the people were dead. She would pretend they were sleeping as some people, myself included, will do when getting a haircut.” He waited for Trevor to agree. The agreement was not forthcoming. A raised eyebrow and pursed lips were all that were reciprocated. “Oh right. Mister neuroses probably thinks every hairdresser is just waiting to drive a pair of shears into your neck.”
“You never know.”
“Right. Freak. So in rolls the body of some guy she had never seen around town. Full beard, straggly hair, plaid shirt, looked like a lumberjack. Turns out he’s not a local but his family have paid for a good funeral. He was some messed up writer type who had holed himself up at a shack to the north and had been there for three months working on some lame-ass novel. Drank himself into a stupor, walked outside and into the path of a car on a nearby road. Family had no recent pictures but said he always looked like “a movie star, like Clark Gable” when he wasn’t s f’ed up writer.”
Trevor adjusted his chair as his bare knees were starting to feel really hot in the mid summer LA sunlight. He couldn’t find a suitable location without moving chairs so placed a cloth napkin over the knees and asked Steve of they could move at some point.
“Soon as I finish princess. So Mom cuts and shaves and trims and all the while she is thinking about Clark Gable. She loved the old dude even though he was at that time old enough to be her dad. Sort of like Trish I am guessing.” He gave the girl a wave across the patio that was returned with more than a touch of perky university girlness.
“Jesus Steve.”
‘She cleans him up, gives him a little half inch moustache, slicked back hair and whammo. Its Clark Gable. She looks around, shuts the door and after a while when she is sure no one is around…”
“Oh stop there Steve, Christ I know your mom! I don’t want to hear a story about her cowgirling a corpse!” Trevor spoke, far too aloud, in disgust as he had another slug of Heineken, half laughing, half standing up and walking away. Every head on the patio was watching them, talking to each other in hushed, judgmental tones.
‘Trevor that is disgusting. Why do you always take things so far? Man I was going to say she leant down to kiss him and then with a sharp intake of breath the guy sits up and screams. He had been in some kind coma, low blood pressure, low heart rate etc. Doc Mallory was a bigger drunk than me and must have missed all. the signs. Lucky he wasn’t gutted or preserved or whatever they call it. Anyway, guy opens eyes, sees this woman about to kiss him, sits up, finds himself on a cold metal table, knows right away where he was for some reason and looks into a mirror and screams. Mom runs outside knocking over a casket as she goes, past the manager of the funeral home. Runs the whole four blocks home, never attends a funeral again.”
“Get out…”
“And never watches old black and white movies because she might see good old Clark..”
“Holy crap Steve. That’s pretty messed up.”
“Yuppers.”
“I don’t think I can ever look at your mom the same again. Always knowing she nearly made out with a dead guy.”
“That my friend is why Dad left. F’ed up eh?”
“Seriously. Wow.” With thought, Trevor drained half his beer, wiped his mouth and reached for the bowl of snacks. “I always liked your mom. Man. Harsh.”
“She always liked you too. You were her fave. Always suggested I invite you on those picnic barbecue trips to the beach, camping all that. She’s a nice lady, just had this thing. You know.”
“Yeah, well, we all have a thing.”
“Okay sport, Gotta zip. Got to get to courier depot place before six. My uncle shipped me something from East coast and they wont deliver it. Too big to fit in my mailbox and I have to sign for it. Won’t redirect it to my office either, bastards.” Steve stood, adjusted his pants, dropped a twenty and a ten on the bill that had arrived with a wink moments earlier.
“Okay, see you tomorrow.”
“Yup, three o’clock. Oh, here, found this in my moms stuff the other day. Thought you’d like it.” He dropped an envelope on the table and left quickly, a grin plastered on his sunburnt face.
Trevor picked up the stark white envelope and tore the end open. Steve never sealed an envelope in a way that allowed you to peel open the flap. He was a bastard that way. Inside were a few pictures from their high school days. They showed Steve and Trevor messing around at the beach, in the woods trying to catch a rabbit and swimming at the local pool. In each a thin moustache had been drawn on Trevors lip. He looked up to see Steve looking back toward the patio then ducking around the edge of a storefront to jog to his car.
The irritatingly friendly waiter was waved away with a smile and more than a mote of masked annoyance by the man in the ironically tacky Hawaiian shirt. He sipped the dregs of his beer and returned his attention to the friend of over twenty five years who had just now, after decades of similar drink induced conversations, decided to explain a mystery.
“Yeah, well, it was all because of Clark Gable. You know, that old dude from Gone with the Wind and that submarine movie, Run Silent..”
“..Run Deep. Yeah love that one..”
“Yeah, well, mom was a hairdresser. Started when Dad was still in the Army. She had a little shop in the back of my grandmothers house, saw all the old ladies, blued their hair, permed it, you know. One day, Dan Crenshaw’s father had a heart attack and there was no barber in town. Everyone was starting to look shaggy I guess so under Mr. Crenshaw’s supervision from a wheelchair and with permission from my Dad, Mom filled in at his barber shop. It was a bit of an approved scandal. A woman cutting men’s hair in the mid-sixties.”
“I don’t let men cut my hair…”
“..yes freak, I know that. Anyway, under what was considered “due supervision” she cut men’s hair. All the men in Braxton had their hair cut. The mayor, the police, fire department, transient workers, everyone. Mister Crenshaw was getting pissed off.” He took a long pull of his beer, removed his baseball cap and slicked back his sweat soaked hair with a sigh. “…man that’s hot.”
Trevor stood, loosened the bolt mid way up the umbrella and readjusted it a bit before shuffling his chair a bit closer to the now fully shaded Steve.
“You could have waited for Trish to do that you know.”
“Why wait, I can do it?”
“Dude, you are so unobservant now that you are married. Look, low cut shirt, short skirt, had we complained ever so nicely she would have fixed it for us and we lecherous old bastards could have had something to ogle.”
“I’m not a lecherous old bastard Steve, you are.” Trevor smiled and looked away as the waitress arrived with a free bowl of nacho chips to replace the one they had already emptied. He looked back in time to say “thank you” as she walked away, sashaying as she did.
“You missed it buddy.”
“No, I saw it. The difference is I wasn’t looking for it nor was I making it obvious that I saw.”
Steve flashed a piece of paper with a sideways emoticon-like smiley and a phone number while sneering a bit and raising an eyebrow above the upper edge of his sunglasses. “How is that working for you by the way and has it ever?”
Shaking his head, Trevor merely muttered “continue please.”
Pocketing the slip of paper, Steve returned to the story. “Of course over time, that old b-tard Crenshaw, don’t give me that look Trev, even Dan said he was a wife beating drunk, Jeeze. Over time, he got back on his feet and threatened my mom that she better not take any business back to her shop with her, that it wasn’t right for a woman to cut a mans hair and all that. Dad was away so nothing was said back. One day a few weeks later she was bleaching some skanky chick’s hair when there was a knock at the door. It was Doc Mallory from the funeral home. He walked in, asked if mom wanted a proper job.”
“Hair styling wasn’t proper?”
“I think he meant working for a man, not working for yourself as a mostly single woman in the sixties in small town bum rush Idaho.”
“Gotcha.” He waved his empty glass at Trish who nodded in agreement as she seated an old withered couple dressed to the nines complete with a yappy small dog on a silver leash.
“Beer me too eh? I’m out. So he explains that everyone in town though she was better than Crenshaw and Crenshaw couldn’t do the pre-funeral haircuts anymore as he had to stop work on the dot at four PM every day now.”
“Woah, hold on. Pre-funeral haircuts?”
“Well, think of the math. How often do you get your hair cut.’
“Every three or four weeks I guess.”
“okay, if you dropped dead tomorrow, would you be happy with your hair?”
“Hell no, its been two and a half weeks and I got a crappy cut last time. Its too fluffy on the sides.”
“Exactly. Your hair looks moronic and bad. Everyone can see this, even Trish, right now.’
“hey…!”
“So you get hit by a frigging bus and they cram all your broken bones and such into a suit and drain you and pump you back up and all people see is a suit, and a head. A head with a retarded hair cut.”
“I never said retarded.”
“Nope, I did. There is this place down the road you know. They serve daiquiris while you get the hair cut. Its pretty awesome. They’ll do a shoulder massage for ten extra bucks.”
“Story Steve, its getting hot.”
“Right, well, she says no at first then after my idiot father comes home for the weekend and they have a fight about her cutting mens hair, her being preggers with yours truly, a whack of things, she takes the job. She shows up the next night and starts working as Hairdresser for the Small Town Dead.. ooo eeee oooo!” The last bit was sung with horror movie panache for the entertainment of his drinking companion and the elderly dog owners who had started to give Steve “the look” for his loud chatter.
Trish returned with two beer and sat down for two minutes of rest as she made small talk with Steve. Trevor looked away noting to himself that he and Steve could be the girls father or at least their creepy uncles. Shaking his head as he squinted into the sky, he watched a bird circle in the hot sun above the city. Crow? No, crows didn’t do that. Gull? Maybe. A bit biggish. Hawk? Eagle? Maybe a hawk, maybe a…
“Yo, drink up. Haircut next. Maybe with happy finish! Anywho, Dad went away again and she started working nights at the funeral home. She would take old pictures of people and try to make them look natural, like their most recent selves. She started liking it, ignoring that the people were dead. She would pretend they were sleeping as some people, myself included, will do when getting a haircut.” He waited for Trevor to agree. The agreement was not forthcoming. A raised eyebrow and pursed lips were all that were reciprocated. “Oh right. Mister neuroses probably thinks every hairdresser is just waiting to drive a pair of shears into your neck.”
“You never know.”
“Right. Freak. So in rolls the body of some guy she had never seen around town. Full beard, straggly hair, plaid shirt, looked like a lumberjack. Turns out he’s not a local but his family have paid for a good funeral. He was some messed up writer type who had holed himself up at a shack to the north and had been there for three months working on some lame-ass novel. Drank himself into a stupor, walked outside and into the path of a car on a nearby road. Family had no recent pictures but said he always looked like “a movie star, like Clark Gable” when he wasn’t s f’ed up writer.”
Trevor adjusted his chair as his bare knees were starting to feel really hot in the mid summer LA sunlight. He couldn’t find a suitable location without moving chairs so placed a cloth napkin over the knees and asked Steve of they could move at some point.
“Soon as I finish princess. So Mom cuts and shaves and trims and all the while she is thinking about Clark Gable. She loved the old dude even though he was at that time old enough to be her dad. Sort of like Trish I am guessing.” He gave the girl a wave across the patio that was returned with more than a touch of perky university girlness.
“Jesus Steve.”
‘She cleans him up, gives him a little half inch moustache, slicked back hair and whammo. Its Clark Gable. She looks around, shuts the door and after a while when she is sure no one is around…”
“Oh stop there Steve, Christ I know your mom! I don’t want to hear a story about her cowgirling a corpse!” Trevor spoke, far too aloud, in disgust as he had another slug of Heineken, half laughing, half standing up and walking away. Every head on the patio was watching them, talking to each other in hushed, judgmental tones.
‘Trevor that is disgusting. Why do you always take things so far? Man I was going to say she leant down to kiss him and then with a sharp intake of breath the guy sits up and screams. He had been in some kind coma, low blood pressure, low heart rate etc. Doc Mallory was a bigger drunk than me and must have missed all. the signs. Lucky he wasn’t gutted or preserved or whatever they call it. Anyway, guy opens eyes, sees this woman about to kiss him, sits up, finds himself on a cold metal table, knows right away where he was for some reason and looks into a mirror and screams. Mom runs outside knocking over a casket as she goes, past the manager of the funeral home. Runs the whole four blocks home, never attends a funeral again.”
“Get out…”
“And never watches old black and white movies because she might see good old Clark..”
“Holy crap Steve. That’s pretty messed up.”
“Yuppers.”
“I don’t think I can ever look at your mom the same again. Always knowing she nearly made out with a dead guy.”
“That my friend is why Dad left. F’ed up eh?”
“Seriously. Wow.” With thought, Trevor drained half his beer, wiped his mouth and reached for the bowl of snacks. “I always liked your mom. Man. Harsh.”
“She always liked you too. You were her fave. Always suggested I invite you on those picnic barbecue trips to the beach, camping all that. She’s a nice lady, just had this thing. You know.”
“Yeah, well, we all have a thing.”
“Okay sport, Gotta zip. Got to get to courier depot place before six. My uncle shipped me something from East coast and they wont deliver it. Too big to fit in my mailbox and I have to sign for it. Won’t redirect it to my office either, bastards.” Steve stood, adjusted his pants, dropped a twenty and a ten on the bill that had arrived with a wink moments earlier.
“Okay, see you tomorrow.”
“Yup, three o’clock. Oh, here, found this in my moms stuff the other day. Thought you’d like it.” He dropped an envelope on the table and left quickly, a grin plastered on his sunburnt face.
Trevor picked up the stark white envelope and tore the end open. Steve never sealed an envelope in a way that allowed you to peel open the flap. He was a bastard that way. Inside were a few pictures from their high school days. They showed Steve and Trevor messing around at the beach, in the woods trying to catch a rabbit and swimming at the local pool. In each a thin moustache had been drawn on Trevors lip. He looked up to see Steve looking back toward the patio then ducking around the edge of a storefront to jog to his car.
