Cheapskate in Love

chapter 17





Bill finally found his Blackberry in the pile of stuff on the passenger seat, while still parked in front of the salon.

The text message read: “Lets go mountain climb. Call me now. Linda”

Bill was irate that Linda had contacted him again. While she had driven him home after his fall at Bear Mountain, in the midst of his great pain, he had still had enough strength to tell her that since he couldn’t see his backpack again, he didn’t want to see her either. She had called him stupid to worry about such an ugly, cheap thing, and he called her stupid to throw away a perfectly good purchase. They had fumed and fussed all the way to his apartment complex, where he had bid her goodbye by telling her he meant what he said: He would never see her again. In return, she had said, “My pleasure, stupid! I never want to see someone as stupid as you.” Bill immediately perceived by her message that she had been unable to find a smarter man to go hiking with. No one is as stupid as I was to go hiking with her, he said, raging at himself and his mistake. He was determined not to be dumb ever again with a woman, and definitely not with Linda.

In his fury, he blamed her for everything that had gone wrong that morning outside the salon: His endless circling, his embarrassment in front of so many women, his fright from a car with older people. His violent thoughts were unreasonable, but nonetheless immensely satisfying. They allowed him to shift the blame for his public shame to her. He remembered that he had dyed his hair in the first place to impress Linda and grew even angrier. He shouted at his Blackberry, as if the little piece of metal and plastic was her, “No treks for me. Not now, not ever. Get lost. I’m getting my hair done.” He threw the phone on the passenger seat, only to pick it up again and continue shouting, “And I’m getting a facial. I’m going to meet someone new. I’m through with you.” He flung the Blackberry down, boiling with petulance.

Now he was more determined than ever to go into the salon. In his eagerness and blind anger, he quickly shifted the car out of park and stepped on the gas to speed to the nearest parking space, which was a parking lot around the corner. Before he had gone twenty-five feet, however, he slammed on the brakes. He narrowly avoided rear-ending the car, which had just pulled around him, with the three elderly occupants. That car had come to a complete halt, and one of the elderly female passengers was helping the other female passenger, who was older than her, out of the car to a walker.

Bill had no patience for them or anyone at the moment. He had someplace to go. Earlier that morning the car had been going much too fast for him, but now it was blocking him. He stuck his head out of his car. “What are you doing? This is a street! Not a parking lot! Drive that car! You want to kill people?” he yelled. “Get going!”

The two elderly women on the sidewalk and the elderly man in the driver’s seat ignored Bill. They continued to do what they were doing at the same unhurried pace. Surging with impatience, Bill swung his car into the other lane. He passed the stationary car, but was almost hit by a van coming from the opposite direction on the two-lane road. The van driver luckily put on his brakes in time to avoid a crash. As Bill sped away, the van driver cursed him for being a reckless NASCAR racer.

After Bill parked his car in the lot, he sped to the salon, pumping his arms and legs. But the closer he drew toward that place, the cooler his anger and enthusiasm became, and the slower his limbs moved. The vehemence he had felt only minutes ago toward Linda deserted him, and when he was a storefront away from the salon, once again he didn’t know what he should do. Should I go in there? Why am I going in there? For what reason should I spend who-knows-how-much money? Who cares what Stan and my coworkers think about my hair? Such thoughts ran around and around his brain, crippling his will to act. If I was dating someone, he thought, I would run in there, but I’m not. Who knows if I ever will again? Less than half an hour had passed since he had reaffirmed his detestation of Linda in the strongest terms, but all of a sudden a positive feeling for Linda overcame him, since she had shown interest in him once more. But that transient sensation soon passed. He knew he had run a full course of foolishness with her, and it was time to leave her behind.

Vacillating again about entering the salon, he did what he had done earlier in the car, this time on foot. He walked back and forth on the sidewalk, stealing peaks inside the salon. He acted as if he were waiting for someone, who would be coming down the block, but that pretended motive was completely unconvincing. He loitered only around the salon and looked frequently inside, with an obvious interest in what was happening there.

On that suburban street, as in American suburbs everywhere, people were seldom seen outside of cars. As a result, drivers of vehicles passing on the street stared at Bill, as if he was a space alien investigating earth, who had yet to learn how to blend into human society. Pedestrians going into businesses along the street—darting inside stores after parking as close as possible—were surprised to see someone loitering on the sidewalk and stared at Bill, too. He didn’t appear to be a homeless person begging, so they couldn’t understand what he was doing.

Inside the salon, the women were joking about the return of the stalker. One woman suggested that they should run out in a posse and capture him, making a citizen’s arrest. Another woman said they should call the police, who would haul the criminal into the salon and handcuff him to a chair, so they could give the perp the treatment he needed to look respectable again. Helen was laughing along with the rest, but she had more sympathy for Bill’s situation. She knew he was not a daring person and resisted doing new things, even if there was little cost involved. She imagined how much he must be suffering at the moment, thinking about the expense of a salon visit compared with what he usually paid at the barbershop, and felt a little sorry for him.

After a short time strolling on the pavement, he perceived that someone was about to exit the salon, although he couldn’t clearly see who it was. He had a better vantage point on the sidewalk than he had had from his car, but he saw even less than before, because he did not want to be seen looking into the window. He only made quick glances in that direction. Since it never occurred to him that the women inside would recognize him as the recent driver whom they had stared at, he wasn’t nervous. He had forgotten the self-consciousness he had felt in his car from their accusing stares, because of his subsequent intense vexation at the other car and the text message from Linda. But although he was largely unbothered being outside the salon, he didn’t want others to see him peeking inside or suppose that he wanted to go in. So when he saw someone about to leave the salon, he turned his back to the door and looked across the street, as if he was trying to catch sight of the person he was meeting or locate a dollar store.

It was Helen with her newly cut and highlighted hair, who walked out of the salon.

“Bill, what a surprise! What are you doing here?” All of the laughing and excitement that morning had put her in a sassy mood. Although she had felt sympathy for him in his predicament, her personality was not weak and sensitive, and she knew his was even less so. She was not about to treat him delicately.

Startled to hear someone calling him, Bill spun around in genuine surprise.

“Hi...Helen...uh...I’m fine,” he stammered. His mind was on other matters, so he didn’t hear the question she had asked.

She overlooked his lapse of attention. “Is your back better?”

“Oh, that’s long gone,” he said. “I couldn’t feel better. I feel fine, really great.” To show his excellent condition, he stood up a little straighter and grimaced with pain, as he slightly strained his still sore back. “Ouch,” he said. He reached his right hand around to rub the tender spot.

“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked, failing to conceal a smile at his discomfort.

“Yes.”

“Linda?”

“No, not her. Someone else.”

“I hope you don’t wait long. It’s a beautiful day.” She decided to turn the conversation to help him out, although she thought it would be amusing to see whom he might invent as the person who would be arriving. “Don’t you like my hair? I just had it done.”

“It’s nice.”

“I’ve been going to this salon for years. The stylists are great, and men come here, too.”

“Oh, really.”

“And you don’t need an appointment. As good as they are, they’re never completely booked. You can walk right in.”

“Maybe I could use a little trim.”

“They dye hair, too.”

“You don’t say.”

“There’s no head of hair that they can’t improve. They’re almost miracle workers. Everyone comes out looking better than they went in. You should try them.” It required a huge effort on Helen’s part not to look at his hair while she spoke. Although she wanted to tell him he should get in there immediately and have it fixed, she managed to restrain herself.

“Maybe I’ll take a look.”

She knew what was on his mind. “And their prices are very reasonable.”

“That settles it,” he said. “I’m going in.” He walked to the salon’s entrance. “Thanks for the advice.”

“I thought you were waiting for someone.” Helen couldn’t resist making fun of him and his lie.

“I waited long enough,” he said, unaware that she was being ironic and mocking him. Bill had a habit of playing dishonest games with women, and he thought that they played such games with him, so he normally didn’t think much about what they said. He was also a bit distracted by his desire to go into the salon. The consequence of his lack of perception on this occasion was that he entered the salon thinking that Helen was becoming too friendly, too interested in him, and he needed to get away from her. She, on the other hand, went to lunch with friends, thinking he was still acting too unfriendly, too uninterested in her, and she needed to make more of an effort.

When Bill entered the salon, Donna was sitting behind the front desk, looking at a computer printout with receipts for the week, comparing how well her business had done in comparison with previous weeks. Her head was down, and she was concentrating on the numbers. They were harder for her to handle than hair, so she had to focus. She did not see Bill enter.

A hush settled over the salon. Most of the customers and stylists behind Donna were looking at Bill. At last they had a chance to see what the rumored stalker looked like up close. Some were whispering together. Since Bill had never been in the salon before, he didn’t perceive any difference in their behavior. He walked gingerly to the front desk. After waiting a few moments without being acknowledged by Donna, he gently cleared his throat. That inarticulate noise drew her attention, and she raised her head. Immediately, Cupid shot a two-headed arrow straight into Bill’s eyes, blinding him from appreciation of any other woman alive, and he froze, completely conquered by Donna’s attractiveness.

“Can I help you?” she asked. She recognized him as the person who had been driving by and walking in front, but she always thought the safest way to deal with a strange man was to act as if she didn’t know him. She also perceived the effect she had on Bill—other men had been affected in the same way—and she didn’t want to give him any false hopes.

“I...I...I,” he stuttered. While men of other nations, for example, France, can become eloquent under the influence of love, maybe too wordy, an American is struck dumb.

She examined him clinically, as if he were a rat in a scientific experiment. “You need a trim and that dye job fixed,” she said.

“Yes...Yes,” he answered. His voice burst out each time, as if he had been stung with an electrode. Like a mechanical toy, he nodded his head up and down repeatedly. “I do. I do.” He was ready to make his marriage vows.

“Do you want anything else?”

“Yes,” he said eagerly, still nodding. “Yes. I do.”

“What?”

He was a little reluctant to say what he wanted. “Can...can you...can I...get...”

“A facial?” She saw that she was dealing with a real salon novice, a virgin in the beautician trade.

“Yes,” he nodded.

“Of course,” she replied, a little irritated. “Anyone with a face can have a facial.”

“I want that, too. I have a face.”

With some effort, Donna managed not to laugh at a grown man, who had become a simpleton. Instead, she looked at the schedule and turned around to see where the stylists were in their work. “Cathy,” she called loudly. “Come and wash Mr...” She asked him, “What’s your name?”

“Bill.”

“Oh, you’re Helen’s neighbor,” she replied casually. She had known his name all along.

Bill raised his eyebrows, surprised that she knew something about him. Instead of becoming suspicious, however, he felt as if there was a tie, a tender tie of new love between them. Her beauty had immediately conquered his senses, and now he thought he was drawing her close to his heart. For the first time, he was truly grateful to Helen for something—the good she had done him by recommending this salon—but then he forgot about her completely. All he could think about and wish for was Donna. Donna was the only woman in his life now.

Catherine approached from the rear of the salon, where she had gone to sit, relax, and look at a woman’s magazine. Donna told her, “Wash Bill’s hair and give him a trim.”

To Bill, she said, “When Cathy’s finished cutting your hair, I’ll color it and give you a facial.”

“So you’re the guy who was driving outside,” Catherine said in greeting him. “We thought you were a stalker.”

Bill was speechless again, but not on account of love. He could only look at Catherine with his mouth open. He was flabbergasted that she, that they, knew he had been driving by scoping out the salon. He was too surprised to be embarrassed or to deny it. He stood like a statue, catching flies with his mouth. Since Catherine was not Donna, he didn’t have any desire to speak to her.

After he remained immobile for a few moments without emitting a sound, Catherine said, “You’re not a stalker, right?” She could see he wished to ignore her. She could tell he was madly infatuated with Donna and wanted her to vanish. But his attitude held little importance in her estimation. She was going to talk to him, whether he liked it or not.