Twenty-five years ago, when Nikki first became my barber, my hair was thick and dark brown throughout. Now it’s thick and dark gray. Together we watched over the years as the hair clippings fell onto the floor around her barber chair. I started by saying, “Oh, there’s some gray in there,” and then haircut by haircut, year by year, some became a lot, and I eventually said, “Oh, there’s still a little brown in there.” But I had to look hard for it.
I didn’t get my haircut often. Six times a year when I was in a grooming phase, just twice a year or so when letting my freak flag fly. But I savored every visit to Nikki and we became close friends. We talked about everything. We shared secrets, our private histories. We trusted each other enough to shed tears in front of each other: when her father died, when my family member became sick. Our conversations weren’t always serious: we talked about books and films, we gossiped a bit.
Nikki was a big fan of my writing. I let her read several of my works-in-progress—which few people do—and she shared her personal story to help me when I was researching one of my books.
The haircuts seemed secondary—but the haircuts were sublime! Not once did I tell Nikki what kind of haircut I wanted. I plopped in the chair and told her to make me look good—or as good as she could given what she had to work with. I didn’t have to say, “Keep the sides short and leave length on top.” I didn’t offer her any guidance or express any preferences. She was the professional and I gave myself over to her and always walked away satisfied with a clean coiffe that fit me just right.
I love Nikki. I always looked forward to seeing her. But then a terrible thing (for me) happened: she retired and moved away. When she broke this news to me during my last haircut with her, my heart sank. It felt like she was breaking up with me. I’m not naive—there might have been a hundred other guys who felt just as close to her and equally crushed by this news. Still, it hurt.
My first reaction was that I’d never be able to get my haircut again. No one could replace Nikki as a barber or a confidante. She gave me the name of someone else in the barbershop I should start going to, but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to go back if Nikki wasn’t there. Eventually, when I began to look like a mophead, I made an appointment for a haircut at another shop, with Megan, who cuts Harriet and Julia’s hair.
Who gets anxious about getting their haircut? I did. I showed up for my appointment and told Megan that the person she’d be replacing as my barber meant the world to me. I told her I couldn’t explain what kind of haircut I wanted because I hadn’t voiced that opinion in twenty-five years. I didn’t know how. I didn’t have the words.
“Just make me look good.” When I said that, Megan looked a little anxious too.
She picked up her scissors and went to work. Wait, that’s not the same style of scissors that Nikki uses! That’s not the way she goes about cutting my hair!
Settle down, fella. Megan’s a professional. My wife and daughter always come back from her shop with their hair looking magnificent. And Megan has a friendly demeanor. We have a nice chat. We start to get to know each other. She does a fine job with my hair and I’ll be back next time. But I miss Nikki. I always will.
