Charlotte's Deadly Scissors

When I first moved to Houston, Texas (the most racially diverse city in America) from Montana (the whitest state), I was intimidated by this city's bizarre mish-mash of cultural diversity. My inaugural encounter with this strange new world came during my first week, when I drove downtown for a job interview. Due to a miscommunication, I arrived two hours early, giving me plenty of time to kill. I spotted a hair salon down the block, ran a hand through my shaggy hair, and decided a neater appearance might improve my job prospects. I walked to the place and entered a universe far removed from Barney's Barber Shop back home.

Inside, I asked the receptionist if they accepted walk-ins. She eyed me up and down with a curious grin. "Yes," she said, giggling, and called out to the adjoining room, "Anyone got time for a walk-in?"

A suave, female voice shot back, "I can get her in ten minutes."

I pondered on the word "her."

"It's a him," said the receptionist, again giggling.

"Him. Her. Whatever. Send them in."

I hesitated, then crept into the main room where every head turned my way. All the hair stylists were African-American women. All the customers having their hair done were African-American women. Everyone seated in the waiting area was--well you can see the trend. Overall, the scene before me was a far cry from a roomful of Norwegian farmers in a small town barber shop.

A tall, heavy woman paused from her work and grinned at me, one hand on her hip and the other holding an imposing pair of scissors. "I'm Charlotte," she said, snapping the scissors. "I'll get to you in a few minutes."

Obviously in the wrong establishment, I backed up a step and mumbled some incoherent noises.

"Well, sugar," she said, nodding toward the waiting area, "Have a seat."

I shuffled my feet, yearning to turn and scurry off. But would fleeing make me a racist? A sexist? Both? Were I to refuse this woman's services, would I essentially be saying, "You're not good enough to cut my hair"? On the other hand, I had to consider my appearance. They surely didn't get many limp-haired Norwegian guys in this place, and a distorted haircut could lessen my chances of landing that job.

Disarmed by Charlotte's expectant eyes, however, I succumbed to social pressure and humbly sat down. I avoided eye contact with the cluster of females who'd resumed their chattering, speaking of subjects so alien to me that they could have been speaking a foreign language. I folded my arms and tapped my foot to some vaguely familiar music drifting from the ceiling speakers. I crossed and uncrossed my legs about twenty times. I picked up a magazine entitled "Black Women's Hair" and thumbed through it.

Charlotte, obviously the salon's dominant personality, conversed in a low voice that penetrated the room's chatter like a cello buttressing a circle of flutes. But her brisk movements contradicted her low-key demeanor. She wielded her scissors like they were nun-chucks, nimbly snapping them before swooping into her customer's hair. She maneuvered the chair so forcefully that I feared she might topple the poor woman to the floor. The longer I watched, the less I fretted about my ultimate appearance, and the more I feared incurring a gaping wound to my skull.

When an elderly lady sitting next to me, apparently noting my discomfort, nodded at me with a kind smile, I felt obliged to respond. But to bring up the subjects we discussed at Barney's--the price of wheat, the new gas station in town, or Charlie Hanson's five-legged calf--was out of the question. So I merely pointed toward the speakers and said, "I love Whitney Houston."

The lady glanced upward. "That's Celine Dion."

"Oh." I scrambled to recover from my error and blurted out, "But I also like Aretha Franklin. And Louis Armstrong. And I read the book "Roots." And ya know what? Denzel Washington's a much better actor than Tom Cruise. And...and..."

"Excuse me, sugar." My attempts to inject more Black celebrities into the discussion were cut off by Charlotte's voice. "As soon as you're done playing Name-That-Black-Person, you're up."

As she stood before me, monster scissors in her right hand and a towel draped across her left forearm, I could not help envisioning a matador preparing to subdue his next victim. Nevertheless, I managed to stand, slink over, and slip into the chair.

Charlotte flung a black nylon sheet around my shoulders and stood back.

"So how ya want it?"

I swallowed hard. I hadn't prepared for this obvious question. Having gotten the same lackluster haircut from the same barber my entire life, I'd never had to explain my preferences--indeed, I wasn't sure I had any. I absently told Charlotte what I'd always told Barney:

"The usual."

She chuckled. "The usual what?"

When I realized the folly of my remark, I said, "Oh, I mean...well..." My voice trailed off.

"I'm no psychic, sugar. How do you want it? Long in back? Short in front? A little off the top? Above the ears?"

Searching for a way out, I nodded and said, "OK."

"Hmm." Charlotte squinted at my hair. "How about you just trust me to flitter around your head and we'll see how it turns out?"

I cringed at this woman's bold overture, but again succumbed to social pressure. I nodded and slumped down further. With my appearance about to be flittered by an intimidating matador, I all but gave up on getting that job.

Charlotte dove in. Her deadly scissors snapped around me like bullets whizzing past a soldier's head. With the chair swinging left and right, I clutched the armrests until my fingers went numb. She occasionally stopped and examined her work with a grunt, before resuming her onslaught. Because she worked the chair so haphazardly, I never got a clear look in the mirror, so I held my head low, resigned to accept the consequences.

As she worked, Charlotte asked about my family and where I was from. She said she'd always wanted to see Montana. She told me how she'd been cutting hair for twenty years. She occasionally patted my head and called me "sugar." When Charlotte brought up the subject of her granddaughter, her voice radiated particular warmth, and she paused to fetch a photo of the little girl. As time wore on, I felt less like a jittery country boy and more like a spoiled kid on a carnival ride. Nothing against Barney, but he never patted my head or showed me pictures. And to the best of my recollection, he never called me "sugar."

Finally, Charlotte plopped the scissors down, squeezed a dab of goop into her palm, and ruffled it into my scalp. "Done," she said.

Through the adventure, I'd nearly forgotten my appearance was being altered for an important job interview. Charlotte's movements were notably slower as she pivoted the chair toward the mirror. In those agonizing seconds, I closed my eyes and envisioned a hiring manager staring at my head and saying, "Sorry, but we don't hire people with hair disfigurements." When the chair stopped, I opened my eyes.

Dang.

I leaned forward for a closer look. It was the closest I'd ever been to being a handsome stud. My hair was smooth and even, with a little flair on the sides I'd never had before. Charlotte held up a hand mirror and I peered in to see my hair tapered into a classy new angle down my neck. Nothing against Barney, but for the first time in my life, my hair had some pizzazz.

"So whaddya think?" she said.

I smiled at Charlotte and shot her a thumbs up. I bounced up out of the chair, handed my new friend a hefty tip, and with renewed confidence, set out to face the day.

Incidentally, I got the job.

* * *

For years, I've held that same position at a subsidiary office near Houston. Now, with mixed feelings, I'm about to be transferred back to a rather bland city out west. Before my big move, a thought came to me. I needed a haircut anyway, so why not look up Charlotte? I couldn't recall the establishment's name, but taking a chance it would still be in business, and that Charlotte would still work there, I drove downtown.

As I cruised through the city, I looked around and reminisced. When I hit this town, I was a hick overwhelmed by cultural oddities. But since then, I've made friends from every ethnicity imaginable. I've been to Mexican festivals, Turkish dances, Holocaust memorials, and even a rap concert. Nothing against rural towns--indeed, I intend to eventually retire to one--but Houston has given me an enticing taste of the outside world. And it all started with that haircut.

I finally found the shop, parked, and walked in. A different receptionist met me, but with no less amusement than had the first one. I heard a familiar voice from the adjacent room and, without speaking, I wandered into the waiting area. It was a slow day with only two chairs occupied--one of them Charlotte's--and no one waiting. Charlotte paused from her work to look up.

"Can I get a quick haircut?" I asked.

She eyed me up and down with no hint of recognition, and nodded toward the waiting area. "Have a seat, sugar."

I sat down. Charlotte was a bit older and heavier, but hadn't slowed a bit. She snapped her monster scissors as fiercely as ever, and swooped through her customer's hair, carrying on with her smooth banter, and occasionally pausing to glance my way.

Once finished, Charlotte dismissed her customer and faced me in her matador stance. "You're up, sugar."

I walked over and settled into the chair. She flung the cape around my shoulders, backed up and looked me over. After a moment she slowly nodded. "Ahh," she said, smiling and patting my head. "The usual?"

I sat back to enjoy the ride. "The usual."