My thinning hair is turning gray. I look in the mirror too often, never liking what I see. My long-time friend, Danny, suggests I try using Rogaine. He has used it for years and insists that’s why his hair isn’t falling out. It’s sixty bucks a bottle and I think Danny is getting hooked. Maybe he hasn’t noticed what I have. There’s a small bald spot on the back of his head. It’s strange looking, is enlarging slowly, so I say nothing.
On the other hand, Danny doesn’t get off my back. He wants me to get a weave and fumes when I tell him I don’t want needles stuck in my upper forehead and don’t want to hide in the house until ‘maybe’ the roots of my own hair start to grow. He gets into a new jag. ‘Get a H.P.’
I ask, ‘What’s that? A hot pack?’ ‘No, Dummy, it’s a hair piece.’ ‘Go to hell, Danny. Leave me alone. I don’t need or want a pair piece, never will. Haven’t you noticed, bare is beautiful?’
That’s when my friend comes close to being knocked out. He has the guts to tell me my head shape isn’t normal and the Nam scar I have near my ear is ugly. I tighten my fists, control myself and change the subject. ‘How about a beer, Buddy Boy?’ He doesn’t answer but starts walking toward Beck’s Bar. We don’t speak until we are almost there.
A light seems to go on in his brain and he stops in the middle of the sidewalk. ‘I know what you need, Oscar. You have to see Jack, Jack the barber. I’ve heard he is superman, can do a scalp massage so soothingly, so magically, that hair growth can begin again. I tell you, Os, if I ever need more help, I’ll see Jack. ‘Come on, let’s go in and make an appointment for you.’ What can I do? I am trapped and follow Danny into the shop.
Three black barbers have customers on their chairs. They are all black, as is Jack and his two employees. I ask Danny if this is the right place and he isn’t sure, but asks, ‘Which one of you is Jack?’ The biggest, fattest man with an Afro out to his shoulders, pauses momentarily, and raises his hand. In a soft, almost effeminate voice, THE Jack asks what he can do for us. I am taken aback. Nothing comes out of my lips. Danny takes over. ‘Jack, my friend here, is losing his hair and we’ve heard you can give a great massage, several of them, that will keep my friend, Mr. Howard, from going bald.’ The customers, all with large mops of wooly hair, look at me. One laughs and tells me his hair was almost gone. ‘ Look what Jack here has done for me. Want him to do it for you?’
Surely my face is red. It feels sweaty. I can’t say ‘no’, don’t want to say ‘yes’. Big Jack takes a sterile safety razor from a white jar on the counter, opens it and moves close to his customer, puts it under the man’s chin and removes the shaving cream, gently, ever so gently. I can see tiny bits of coarse black beard in the cream. He says, ‘Well, Mr. Howard, make up your mind. I have business to attend to.’ The pressure is terrible. Danny speaks for me. ‘When do you have your next opening, Jack.’ Jack says to me, ‘As soon as I get finished with this ass hole on my chair.’ Them's darin’ words. ‘OK, Jack. I’m next.’
Every Saturday morning for six weeks I sit in Jack’s chair. He tells me dirty jokes, makes fun of white folks and gives me a super massage. I have added a shave to my weekly bill. At the end of six weeks, I notice a few soft black hairs peeping thru my receding forehead. They are the same kind I have, not kinky at all. I tell Danny about it and suggest he make an appointment to see if Black Jack can do anything about the small bare spot in the back of his head. Danny looks at me like I am crazy and asks, 'What bald spot?’
I go with him to Jack’s for his first appointment. From there we leisurely walk to Beck’s for a beer or two.
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