Cheapskate in Love

chapter 16





On Saturday morning, Bill drove his car slowly by a hair salon and spa, in the small commercial center of the town in which he lived. The salon was on a two-lane, two-way street without curbside parking. As best as he could while driving, he tried to look through the large plate glass window of the salon and see who was inside. The salon was on the right side of the car, and when he passed by, he leaned in that direction as far as he could without letting go of the steering wheel.

Although he had driven by the business several times already that morning, he was still puzzled and uncertain about what to do. He knew that he should go inside. Yet he wasn’t sure that he really wanted to. The traffic light in his brain was blinking bright red then green in a dazzling rapid sequence over and over. Bill’s will was paralyzed. He couldn’t decide to drive away, and he couldn’t agree to park and enter the salon. This time, as on all the occasions before, when he reached the intersection past the salon, he turned to go around the block, so he could drive past the business again. He had to observe more before he could make up his mind. He hoped he would see something that would reassure him and allow his courage to collect itself, so he could go in. What that something might be, he didn’t know. Two fears were overloading the circuits of his brain that he couldn’t vanquish: First, he had never entered a hair salon before. He wasn’t even sure that men went into such places. Second, he had no idea what the costs might be. He was certain the charge would be more at the salon than at the barbershop he went to, but he didn’t know how much more. Guessing made him nervous. He had a serious, disabling case of the jitters.

Despite his indecision about entering the salon, he had persuaded himself that he needed to have his hair professionally dyed. Normally, Bill did not care what he looked like, nor did he care what other people thought of him. In his mind, saving money superseded any frivolous interest in looking better. Although he expected the women that he dated to dress and look like runway models, actresses, or tasteful porn stars, he did not apply the same standard to himself. When he thought about how his exterior affected women, which was something that rarely ever crossed his mind, he figured they would be content to have him as he was. Why wouldn’t they? There was a full-length mirror in his apartment. Yet he couldn’t see anything physically wrong with his face, physique, or clothing.

He was now deep into middle age, and to people who could judge appearances objectively, he definitely looked like an ordinary victim of time’s cruel treatment. He looked worse than ordinary, in fact, because he seldom exercised, ate unhealthful foods—and too much of them—and was never ever seen in fine apparel, which can conceal some bodily imperfections and make a person more attractive. Yet in spite of his obvious personal detractions, subjectively he considered himself a youngish man, not just at heart but also in body, and still good-looking, as he really once had been over thirty years ago. Then, he had not needed fancy clothing to improve his looks, for the greatest possible adornment is youth, as every older person knows too well.

Although it seems impossible that he could persist at his age in believing he was a man in his twenties, he did. Although evidence to the contrary was literally in his face, he did not know who he was in a physical sense. Maybe because the changes time inflicts upon us are so gradual, he never had an obvious reason to reevaluate his opinion of himself. The changes in his body from day to day were so tiny, so imperceptible, like they are for all of us, that they did not startle him into thinking differently about himself. When he looked at a mirror, which he never did for long, he saw a memory of himself. He didn’t see what was actually there. Certainly, he wished his hair wasn’t so thin or so grey, but those were minor points. Otherwise, he was satisfied with himself, as he always had been. However, when Stan firmly and emphatically stated that his multi-colored hair made him look old and senile, like someone who couldn’t see what showed in a mirror and do some adjusting, that sort of logic pierced through Bill’s hard head easily. He hated being called old. To be told that he looked both old and senile made him think that he needed to do something, even if he had to pay for it.

Later on the same day when he had gone to lunch with Stan, he casually asked his coworkers what they thought of his hair. He wanted to see whether Stan’s judgment was an isolated one. Bill wasn’t the type who was quickly convinced into spending money on himself, and he thought that most of Stan’s opinions were fine for someone who had a bigger paycheck. His coworkers paused at his question and looked at each other with wondering expressions. There was a smatter of mild comments in response. “It’s sort of OK.” “I’ve seen worst.” “Did you do it yourself?” Suddenly the dam of their politeness and pent-up repugnance broke—no one had given him their honest opinion about his hair before—and he was convinced that he had to take action. Katie contributed the most to his certainty. Although her words were not as personal and biting as the others, he thought that her inability to remain neutral was the most urgent sign that his hair needed fixing. “My grandfather tried to dye his hair once, and it was a mess, just like yours,” she said. He did not want to be compared to anyone’s grandfather.

While Bill was driving around the block, so he could pass in front of the salon again and look through the window once more, a conversation took place inside that concerned him.

“Donna,” said Catherine. “Have you seen that car that keeps driving by?”

Donna, who was the owner of the salon, stood nearest to the window in the interior. She was busy cutting the hair of a customer. Because the front desk was situated between her and the window, she could not be clearly seen by anyone passing by in a car or on the sidewalk, and she was someone whom people would notice. In excellent shape for a woman who had reached her mid-fifties, Donna could pretend to be much younger than she was, and she did. Plastic surgery helped support the illusion. In addition to her physical attractions, she exuded a warm sensuality more common to women of a childbearing age that men of all ages found irresistible. While she had been married for more than twenty-five years, she had been frequently and secretly admired and occasionally propositioned, but she had always refused to be unfaithful. Her former husband was a policeman and very handsome. However, since they had divorced about a year ago, Donna found the attention she received from strange men much more flattering and passively encouraged it. Although she already had a much younger, jealous boyfriend, who disapproved of her showing interest in other men, she did what she wanted to. He always forgave her, and her husband now wanted her back. Like Helen of Troy, men couldn’t let go of her and fought over her. She considered her profession as a hairdresser a form of artistic expression and dressed mostly in black.

Catherine, another stylist in the salon, stood next to Donna. She was working on Helen, who was a regular customer there. Like Donna, Catherine could see what was happening outside without being seen. They were both in the habit of gazing out the window frequently during work. There was little of interest outdoors in that town—the commercial street in front of them had intermittent pedestrian and vehicle traffic—but they had been working in the salon for so many years that the wonders of hairstyling, chair massages, and facials had been exhausted for them. Although the chance was small that they would see something new in front of the shop, they kept looking. The other way they had of passing their day was talking. They indulged in that liberally. They kept almost a constant banter going amongst themselves or with customers. They had talked so much over the years that they had an intimate knowledge of each other’s life. Neither woman was secretive. However, although the two women were good friends, entrusting personal secrets to each other and spending time together outside of work, they were quite different in several ways. Catherine didn’t have the voluptuous beauty of Donna. She was plain looking and somewhat overweight. Her excessively highlighted and permed hair, heavy makeup, and colorful clothing were all calculated attempts to compensate for her lack of prettiness. But they completely failed to attract the desires of men that Donna so effortlessly drew toward herself. In comparison with Donna’s palpable sensuality, Catherine had the personal charm of an automated voice system. The usual reaction of men to Catherine was to get away as fast as possible.

To Catherine’s question about the circulating car, Donna replied, “Yes. That beat-up thing ought to be melted down and recycled.” Appearances mattered very much to her. She drove a new BMW.

“Who do you think’s driving it?” Catherine asked.

“Don’t know.”

“What do you think they’re doing?” Catherine continued.

“Maybe it’s an old man who’s lost. He might have forgot where he’s going. He’ll just go round and round in circles till he runs out of gas.”

“It seems to be a man,” Catherine agreed. “He seems to be looking in here, when he drives past.”

“Could be.”

“Maybe you have another admirer?” teased Catherine.

“If he is, I’m giving him to you.”

“You ought to. You could give one to everyone here. You have enough,” Catherine complained. “Helen, would you like one of Donna’s ardent admirers?”

“Maybe,” Helen said. “I’d have to see him first.” Helen spoke in the same light manner that Catherine had. She was quite sure, however, that she did not want one of the fellows drooling over Donna. She thought Donna’s lifestyle more suitable to someone half of Donna’s age.

“I’ll take one,” the woman said, whose hair Donna was cutting. “I’ll take anything over what I got. Nothing could be worse. I can’t remember why I married him. He snores like a horse.”

Catherine was about to reply, but she glanced out of the window. “Look, there he is again! Do you think he’s a stalker?” Catherine shouted excitedly, as she pointed outside.

At Catherine’s exclamation, all ten women in the salon rushed over to the window to get a good look at the car and driver. A stalker wasn’t an every day occurrence in that town. That was big city news, and the women wanted to catch it.

Outside, while Bill drove slowly by the salon, he saw the women in the salon looking at him. Inside, the women saw him watching them. Both parties became locked in a stare. Neither side knew what the other side was up to. They were bewildered, perturbed, and profoundly transfixed by each other. They were inseparable spectators and could not be parted. The women were partly horrified, because they imagined that they had caught sight of a stalker in brilliant daylight. Poor Bill, in return, felt all of their accusing eyes upon him. His heart pounded. Sweat seeped from his pores. His hands clenched the steering wheel. Although innocent of any crime—and guileless, simple, and naïve by nature—he was turned into the detested criminal they thought he was, simply by the strength of their glaring condemnation. He was so taken with fear at himself that he was on the edge of a trembling fit. A moment more, and he would have been twitching to pieces.

Luckily, a car came behind him and started honking. Bill’s concentration had been so absorbed in staring and being stared at, that he had begun to drive slower than ever. His foot had stopped pressing the gas pedal, and his car had been barely rolling forward. He had no awareness of what was happening around him. He had not noticed the car come up to his rear. The driver of that car, after a few moments of proceeding at a turtle’s trot, laid on his horn for several seconds, several times in a row. Bill was so startled, he almost leaped from his pants.

“What the...” he cursed. “This isn’t a racetrack.” He put on his brake. Rolling down his window, he stuck out his arm and angrily motioned the car behind to pass.

“There’s no NASCAR race around here, buddy!” he shouted at the occupants. “What’s your hurry?”

A man older than Bill was driving the other car, and there were two elderly female passengers. None of them responded to Bill, except to briefly look at him, like he was an animal at the zoo.

“Get out of here!” Bill shouted at them, shaking his fist in the air. “I hope you get a speeding ticket!”

While the car pulled in front of him, Bill’s Blackberry rang. He pulled his arm back in and fumbled through the stuff on the passenger seat to find the device.

In the salon, the women began chuckling with laughter, when they saw the supposed stalker upset by the honking. Their previous suspicions evaporated and were replaced with mockery of the stranger. They knew they weren’t watching a hardened criminal engaged in illegal activity. They returned to where they had been before rushing to the window, talking among themselves. One woman remarked, “If that man is a stalker, we could all be FBI agents.”

Unlike the rest, Helen was silent, when she sat down in the chair where she had been. She had not said anything to anyone, since they had all rushed to the window. Looking outside, she had quickly recognized Bill’s car and saw that it was him. She knew he wasn’t capable of being a stalker, so she hadn’t watched him with the same feelings as the others, but she didn’t want to defend him either. She had simply observed how he handled an awkward situation. She suspected why he had unintentionally created the embarrassing moment for himself. He should be ridiculed for his timidness, she thought, in driving by the salon again and again, but still she considered him to have acted naturally, when he saw them staring at him and when the car behind had startled him. During that time, when all their eyes were on him, he had shown what she thought was openness and a kind of pluck. He certainly had made a fool of himself, but on her he had left a favorable impression.

“I know who that is,” she said to Catherine, when she was seated again.

“Who?” Catherine asked, eager for gossip.

“It’s my neighbor Bill. I’ve known him for years. That’s his car.”

“Is he stalking you?” Catherine wanted to know in all seriousness. She still wished to believe that they had seen a stalker, since it wasn’t yet apparent to her what else the man could be doing.

“No. He’s only interested in young women. The younger, the better.”

“You’re not old,” Donna assured her, as she should. There was less than a year’s difference between her age and Helen’s.

“I’m the same age as him,” Helen said. “But any woman near his age he thinks is ancient. He brags to the front desk person and anyone else he feels comfortable with that his girlfriends are always at least fifteen years younger than him.”

“Oh, one of those,” Donna observed. She had a lot of experience with men like that, more than she cared to remember.

“Child molesters,” Catherine declared grimly. Although she was much younger than Donna and Helen, she knew she wasn’t young enough or pretty enough for Bill. She knew what Bill’s type wanted.

Helen, Donna, and the woman whose hair Donna was cutting let out sudden, high-pitched laughs at Catherine’s comment. Catherine barely smiled at their reaction.

Donna recovered the quickest. “So what’s he doing out there, if he’s not looking for you?” she asked Helen.

“He probably wants to come in here,” Helen said, “but he’s afraid. I guess he’s realized that his hair needs fixing. He dyed it himself, I’m sure. It’s truly a mess. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

With a boldly inflected voice suitable for a radio advertisement, Catherine said, “Sounds like a...”

“Man emergency,” she and Donna sang out together. They had dealt with such emergencies before.

Donna, Catherine, and their customers smiled and shared a feeling of superiority. They thought that a sensible woman, which they all knew themselves to be, would never make the mistake of trying to dye her own hair. Only a silly, old man would try to do that.