What is the strangest thing you’ve ever done? That’s quite an ask, right?? Let me whittle it down. Think about the strangest thing you’ve done this decade. This has already been one hell of a decade and we're only three years in. We've had covid, attempted overthrow of the American government, and talk of WW3. Now there may be some things you don't want to reveal. (I hope there are, for your sake!) I'll go first. I am going reveal the strangest thing I've done this decade that I am willing to admit.
I cut my 70-year-old neighbor’s hair… in his apartment…. while he is in his bathtub. He has clothes on, you pervs out there that are wondering and I know who you are! Things often seem strange in the beginning, but after repetition, they generally become run-of-the-mill.
One morning, I am following Bill, my neighbor, out of our building. He asks, "Tam, you think my hair is too long?" His wispy, reddish white hair was peeking over his shirt collar.
"Yeah, it's a touch too long." I'd seen him over at our local hair salon struggling to keep his locks red, so I knew he could get a trim within mere minutes.
"My brother is coming into town later this week. I gotta look sharp since I have more hair than he does. Do you mind giving it a little trim tonight or tomorrow?"
WTF-cut my neighbor's hair?? I have a job, dude.
"Wow, Bill. I don't really know how to cut hair."
"Oh, just a little trim in the back?"
What the hell! I'll have 24 hours to find an excuse. "How 'bout tomorrow morning?" tumbles out of my mouth. That night at the dinner table, I announce to my family I'm going to cut Bill's hair. My son does a spit take back into his iced tea glass. My teen-aged daughter gives me the look of death. "Mom, remember what Aunt Sedra said about my bangs after you cut them?"
"No. I have no idea," I lie.
"She said and I quote: Lizzy, your bangs look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa."
My husband sits there chewing his chicken parm, contributing nothing but a smirk.
"Well, apparently Bill has faith in me," I say. Now I am determined to channel Edward Scissorhands!
Next morning, Bill texts me, Shall I come over?
Nuts! I was going to watch a YouTube video on hair-cutting. Oh well, my daughter endured her bangs. Bill can manage a mishap as well. I envision his wispy hair floating around my kitchen. The idea of finding my neighbor's hair in my BP&J sandwich turns my stomach. This can not happen. Let me explain further. I like hair only when it is attached to the body and head. One reason I love blonds is because when their hair goes astray, it's difficult to see. Out of sight, out of mind, kind-of-thing. Fate cruelly made my husband and children not blond. However, my husband is bald now. He makes up for that hair elsewhere, if you know what I mean. My daughter's long, wavy brunette hair falls out and grows back like a chia pet.
NO. I'll come over, I text back.
I run over to his apartment like my ass is on fire, just in case he misread my text.
"Where shall we do this?" he asks, as he swings open the door. Shit, I have to think of everything.
"Do you have scissors?" I query.
He scrouges around in a desk drawer and produces a pair of sewing shears. I mean like with eight-inch blades. My mother, who sews and does all kinds of mending, doesn’t even own a pair like this. My best friend’s mother in high school was a seamstress and worked at a fabric shop. That’s the only other time I’ve seen similar lethal shears. And I swear, these had rust on them.
"Wait, I used to cut the kids' hair." I bolt out of his place yelling, "I'll get my barber scissors." Damn, I sound official.
I walk, not run, back to Bill's apartment. "Should we do this on your terrace?" Oh no. No! No! No! I look around his 900 square foot apartment.
"Your bathroom. The bathtub. Get in." He looks quizzically at me as his hands reach for the buttons on his shirt. "I mean STEP in!" I instruct. This feels weirdly intimate, but what are my options? I spot the rusted shears on the closed toilet lid. I look at the shower curtain. I look at him. All of a sudden, I understand Tony Perkins a little better. He has a hand towel draped around his shoulders. Well, at least he thought of something!
"Turn and face the wall," I demand, my scissors in hand.
Let me set the scene a little more. It's July in a pre-war New York City apartment. Bill has one window air-conditioning unit and it ain't in the bathroom, let me tell you. He has on khakis and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. His hair is damp from sweat. I don't know if I've stepped into The Twilight Zone or purgatory. If I see a cockroach come out of that bathtub drain . . . a dios mio!
I take a few deep yoga breaths and plunge in. After a few confidence-building snips in the back, I have him rotating like a barber shop pole, so I can snip at will from all different angles to make improvements. We gossip about our landlord who is an asshole. We talk about current neighbors and previous ones. I steer clear of asking about the ex-girlfriend of his who moved from her boyfriend's apartment on the second floor into his apartment on the fifth floor briefly a few years ago. He recalls the previous tenant who had been in my apartment--the South African diamond dealer who had some loose diamonds laying around and left his sliding glass door open to the common roof. Oddly enough, the gems disappeared. Bill thought there was insurance money involved. 'Ya think?
Twenty minutes later, of randomly snipping at this man's hair, I declare him a finished product. He steps out of the tub, surveys himself in the mirror and says he's better-looking than his brother.
I leave his apartment, feeling vindicated. Bangs like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, my ass!
