I was barely 18 when I lived in that tiny city; I'd moved there with no plan and little money to live with my high school best friend who didn't want to live in the dorms any more after being repeatedly harassed for being openly gay. He found the place all on his own and called me one day to propose the idea to me. The rent was cheap because the house needed a lot of work, but we didn't mind the state of things, because it seemed full of potential and more importantly; it offered freedom. I wasn't planning on enrolling in school because I couldn't afford it, but it did meet my criteria of being anywhere other than where I was from.
I figured I'd find work of some sort, but it was a broke town full of college students fighting for jobs that they could work around their studies, which meant that wages were low and most places were only looking for part-timers. The gig that I finally managed to land painting and sanding decks wasn't enough to keep me afloat and if it rained, we didn't work and I didn't get paid.
When money got tight, we took in two more roommates, including someone who took up residence in our attic. We made spaghetti in big pots because it was cheap and would feed us for a couple of days: we plotted between mouthfuls on how we could dig ourselves out of poverty. Loans, get money fast schemes like pay at the door parties all were discussed, but we were lacking the life's experience to pull most of these ideas off properly.
The only one of us who was steadily employed mopped up come at the adult movie theater across the street from our house. I'd go sit inside the store with him after they closed because I was waiting for something, anything interesting to happen to me. One night while I waited for him to finish work I spotted an ad on the dirty cork board nailed to the pink walls near the rack of impossibly large dildos. It said 'Adult Male Performers Wanted' and I tore one of the perforated phone numbers from the sheet, stuffing it in my pocket quickly. I knew if my roommate spotted me and would give me all kinds of grief about it.
I waited a few days before calling, not certain what the ad meant I'd be doing and I was both a little reluctant and little turned on about what it could entail. Dialing the number from a payphone made my heart thump loudly and when the voice on the other end of the line told me I'd reached a hair salon, I almost hung up, thinking it was a mistake.
"I'm calling about the ad for performers?" I managed to say quietly, still unsure I'd dialed correctly.
The woman on the other end of the phone asked how old I was and I added a year to my age for no good reason, because you only need to be 18 to strip in bars in that city, even if you aren't old enough to drink in them. She asked me if I was ok dancing for both men and women and I said yes without thinking it through and then wondered for a moment if I really would be.
She invited me to come to her salon the next day, which was outside of the city proper and I hopped in my car not sure what to expect. I used a map and took dirt roads to the address she'd given and when I pulled up in front of the little free-standing building I had second thoughts. I sat in my car listening to the radio before working up the courage to head inside.
The woman cutting hair was in her late forties, with darkly lined eyes and a low cut sweater. She looked up at me, knowing already who I was and said she'd be right with me. She finished the client whose hair she was cutting and after seeing him out the door, she told me to take a seat in her chair. She trimmed my hair while we talked, asking me questions about myself as she circled me. I could smell her perfume, which was familiar to me, but I couldn't remember the name of it; to this day if I smell it, I think of her.
She was careful not to put too much emphasis on the fact that I'd be dancing in front of men more often than women, but I was more worried that she'd ask me to pay for the haircut and I wouldn't have enough money in to cover it and eat that day. Thinking back on it now I realize she knew exactly what she was doing; she had my number in a way that I didn't see then. She was sizing me up from the moment that she answered the phone.