Haircuts are problematic for me. I fear walking up to a Eurosalon and getting turned away by an Armani-clad bouncer. “Sorry, buddy, no jeans, sneakers or Opie of Mayberry haircuts in here. Come back when you know how to use gel.”
    On the other hand, I’ve also had bad luck with basic barbershops. The last time I ventured into one, I walked out the door knowing just how my old dog Chopper used to feel when she had to have all her fur shaved off to treat her skin condition. Obviously embarrassed by her ugliness, she’d skulk around and avoid people until her fur grew back, which is pretty much what I did for two weeks after my barbershop scalping.
    To avoid that traumatic experience I have become a consistent customer of John’s Hair Styling Shop on Myrtle Street. John’s place is a barber shop, in that it does have a barber pole outside and does not have a cappuccino machine inside. But John gives excellent haircuts, so I get the best of both worlds—comforting barbershop decor without the Flowbie-quality cut.
    But John also excels in another facet of the haircut experience: the banter. In my experience, haircut chat usually focuses on banal subjects like sports or the weather. I’ve not asked John about sports or the weather, but in past visits I’ve gotten an earful on creationism versus evolution, the French mafia’s role in JFK’s assassination, and the insidious effect of plastics on male-pattern baldness, among other things. On my latest visit, we begin by talking about my hair.
    “Do I see a gray one in there?” I ask, peering at the pile of hair on my lap.
    “Of course not,” John replies. “And if there was, I wouldn’t talk about it. Always accentuate the positive, never the negative. Your hair is a great color. With some red in it like that, that’s the best color. You’re like a thoroughbred racehorse.” A racehorse. Yeah, John’s right—let’s be positive. My hair is the bomb. We’re both silent for a minute, engrossed in reverie of my exalted locks. John breaks the silence.
    “So how long have you been losing your hair?” he asks. Hey, hey. What happened to accentuating the positive? Well, the economy may have been in a recession since last March, but my hairline has been in a recession since ’95. My follicle density has been declining at an average of 3 percent per year, and it looks like the merger between my scalp and my forehead is eventually going to go through. But bald is beautiful, I tell myself. I try to ignore the Rogaine ads that insinuate that your girlfriend is going to run off with Fabio if you don’t buy some Rogaine right now. Instead I look to skull-baring studs who have no trouble pulling the babes. Andre Agassi. Bruce Willis. Homer Simpson. I accentuate the positive.
    John fleetingly mentions how a quality toupee can remedy a bad case of balditis before launching into his theory on the cause of all this shedding: plastics. “Eating out of plastic containers is causing everyone to go bald these days,” he says. “It never used to be this bad. But now everyone’s going bald, men and women, because of all the plastic.” I “uh-huh” in agreement, and not just because John is holding a straight razor to my neck. Who knows? He might be right. Maybe it is the plastics.
    After a few final snips, John is finished. I’m preparing to get up when he asks, “Do you want to see what you’d look like with all your hair back?” Curious to see where he’s going with this, I say sure and he rummages around in a bag next to the chair. He then deposits a toupee on my head and my life flashes before my eyes. Only, it’s not my past, it’s my future: I’m at an off-track betting establishment, chomping on a cigar, sweating, my rug slightly askew. I’m shopping for garish sports coats. I’m admiring Ted Danson. It’s all too much and I bid John to remove the hairpiece, which looks as if it should have a face of its own. Did I hear a growl or was that my imagination?
    “Well, now I’ve shocked you,” John says as he returns the pelt to its lair. As I grab my wallet to pay (or shall I say, “toupee”), I notice that John has a thick, full head of hair. I also notice that he’s been sipping a Pepsi all along. The Pepsi is in a plastic bottle. What do I make of this apparent immunity to plastic-related hair loss? Maybe John has some information he’s not sharing...
...Or maybe some of those rugs don’t look so bad after all. *