I sit back in the barber chair as he slips the cover-up around my chest and buttons it at my neck. I'm overdue for a haircut but life has just been too busy to stop. Until today. I'm heading down to meet friends in the City this weekend and figure I should clean up just in case a little magic strikes when I'm there.
I just recently turned 59 years. I'd say I'm a reasonably-sized caucasian male ... 5'10" and just under 180 pounds. My hair is not so full anymore - likely one of the reasons I've not be into the shop lately - and mostly grey. My typically well-groomed beard is mostly white with some hints of grey/black hair.
I've lived in this small town in the mountains about five years now. I just wanted to get away from the city and there is just enough here to call it home. The town is a dichotomy of new money moving out to the east and older, original blue collar families living to the west. I live pretty much in the middle, it just feels comfortable to me. I tend to shop and take care of regular business in the older part of town. Something inside me about supporting the locals that have been here longer than me.
And so I take a seat in the small hair salon / barber shop in the strip mall with a Mexican restaurant and a coffee shop. The two lady owners are working - one doing some kind of coloring on a woman and one cutting hair. There is also a young man cutting a teenagers hair. The ladies I know casually from prior visits but the young man is not familiar. They are all bantering some in Spanish and I admit to knowing very little of the language. So I wait with my phone and listen to the words and laughs. Soon enough, the young man asks me if I'm ready.
After fastening the cover-up, he asks me what type of cut. Short around the sides, a 2.5 shear, and just clean it up on top. It's getting thinner by the year but I still want to look good for the weekend trip to the City. I always get a good haircut here but there was something about the attention to details as he cut that caught my attention. We made small talk as he cut - he was born in the town but had left during his school years only to return four years ago after graduating high school.
It feels like I catch his eye a time or two while he cuts and trims and razors until he is satisfied with his work. He seems surprised by the generosity of the tip and thanks me. I ask his name, "Jesús" he replies and wishes me a good weekend in the City. I take one last look in the mirror as I slip my windbreaker on before heading out the door.
#
Six weeks has passed and I really don't need a haircut but I'd like to see if I get the same vibe from the young man that cut my hair previously. I checked to see when he'd be working in the afternoon and decided I just had to know. I can't say I had dwelled on him but he had crossed my mind more than a few times. I note a smile on his face as I walk into the salon in the late afternoon. It's just Jesús and one of the owners at this hour. I'm able to slide into his chair without having to wait.
Once again, the conversation is easy as he trims my hair and beard. He asks about my trip from my last visit and recalls how I liked my hair and beard without asking. I find myself picking up the same energy as the last time I visited.
"So Jesús, would you like to go for a beer after work?" I wasn't sure I would ask him but after the attention he paid to trimming my beard, I just felt like I had to ask. Thankfully, he gave me a slight smile and nodded he would. "The Mexican place?" I asked referring to the restaurant a couple doors down from the salon.
"We can or ... go down the road to a little place I sometimes go." It is the pause that catches my attention and makes me think he'd rather go down the road. I'm not certain why but it makes no difference to me where I drink if it means spending a bit more time with him. He is a handsome young Mexican man. He has warm eyes and clean shaven other than a slight mustache. He had said he plays soccer on the weekends with his friend and he looks to have the build for it, maybe 5'8" and 155 pounds or so.
After a couple beers and two rounds of chips, we both sense the time to leave is reaching us. I pay the pretty waitress and she gives him a kiss on the cheek as he stands.
"I would like to kiss you," I say to him as we stand between our trucks. At this point in life, I feel pretty confident about reading the signs right. He looks around like he is checking to see if anyone was watching then just nods. I lean forward and press my lips to his. His hand presses against my beard and I soon know this is not the first time he's kissed a man. Lips part and my tongue tastes his mouth as we kiss a bit harder in the parking lot. The sound of a truck over the rocks and he pulls away, stepping one step backwards. It's dusk but not dark.
"I'm not out ... some know, some don't, small town" he offers as an apology for abruptly ending our first kiss.