Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by John McDonnell

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When Jimmy Fortunato walked in to the Mod Shoppe in 1965 to get his hair styled, the girl at the front desk said, "Who do you want to cut your hair?"

Jimmy looked down the line of stylists and saw one of them adjusting her pink miniskirt in front of a mirror. She had a Beatle haircut with brown bangs that came down to her eyebrows, green plastic hoop earrings, raccoon eye mascara, and white lipstick.

"Her," he said.

His heart was pounding as he sat down in her chair. He'd been going to the same barbershop since he was three years old, a place that smelled of talcum powder and wintergreen hair tonic, where big-bellied men came in to talk football and get their crewcuts trimmed. He was scared to try something new, but he wanted more out of life. He was in high school now, and he wanted to look hip, happening, stylish.

"So, what'll it be?" the girl said, scissors in hand. There was a sign on the mirror that said, "Candy".

"I want to look like George Harrison," Jimmy said.

"No problem." Jimmy closed his eyes and let Candy do her work. He drank in the sweet smell of her perfume, the sound of her bubblegum popping, the soft presence so close to him. It was the first time a girl had put her fingers in his hair. He awoke from his reverie to find that he did indeed have that British Invasion look. It would probably get him beat up at school, but he didn't care. He felt cool, on the edge, for the first time in his life.

That was the end of barbers for Jimmy. His father questioned his manhood, but Jimmy tuned him out. He was the only kid in his neighborhood with hair like that. He quit the football team and started guitar lessons. Wherever he was, he looked at his hair—in every mirror, every window, every shiny surface. He loved the way he looked.

In the 70s, Jimmy dressed in open-necked shirts and white shoes, and Candy trimmed his hair into an upswept disco cut. By now she was wearing a silver lame jumpsuit, and she had orange hair with blond—all the people he met looked like teenagers, and they had full, luxuriant hair, thick as the bristles on a paintbrush.

Now the shop was called Slash, and everyone was younger than him, except Candy. Candy had sensible hair these days, modest in length, and dyed a muted blonde. She wore peasant dresses that came to her ankles, and her body was thicker and softer than before. Jimmy still liked to close his eyes and dream when she cut his hair, but now the process ended much too soon.

Then one day Candy said, "There's not much for me to work with here."

She turned his chair so that he was facing the mirror, and she held up another mirror behind him. Under the bright lights, Jimmy could see the patch of bare skin on top of his head. It was like looking at someone else's head, maybe one of those guys from the neighborhood so many years ago, the guys who looked at Playboys in the barbershop and told dirty jokes. Jimmy couldn't understand how it happened. Once he looked like Beatle George; but now he looked like someone screaming,

"Great deals on pre-owned vehicles!" on late night TV.

"How about I shave it off?" Candy said. "I could shave you clean in a few minutes. It's easy to take care of, and it looks good for men like you who are losing their hair."

She was right, of course. It was the right solution. And it would look better than the desperate swirling windmill his hair had become these last few years.

He sighed, and then agreed. She got out an electric razor, switched it on, and amid its high-pitched whine, he saw his precious hair falling on his lap. He felt a pang of grief as she lathered his head up and used a straight razor to get rid of the stubble. When she was finished, she turned him around toward the mirror and said, "There. That's better, isn't it? And you know what? You don't really need me to do this anymore. You can do it at home yourself."

He looked at the bald man staring back at him, and the middle-aged woman with lines around the corners of her eyes, and he felt the walls of his life crashing down around him. His throat swelled, and he stifled a sob. It had all been so wonderful, and he couldn't let go.

"You know, I've been coming here for a long, long time," he said. "And I don't know your last name. Do you think we could talk for awhile? Have you had lunch? I'd love to take you to lunch."

Copyright © 2004 John McDonnell

About the Author
John McDonnell is a freelance writer living outside of Philadelphia with his wife and four children. He has been published in many online magazines, including Aoife's Kiss, The Harrow, The Writer's Hood, and Biff's Boards. This story was inspired by the realization that John has been going to the same female hair cutter for 15 years.