I never schedule a recurring appointment for my haircut, despite seeing the same beloved barber for years.

Audie.

I love getting my hair cut by this man!

I like my hair shorn high and tight; short, short, short! I love the feeling of my hand against those buzzy bristles against my skull. But I also love sitting in his chair and hearing about his world. Every time I learn fascinating new things about him, the world, professional skateboarding, good food. Every visit is like shaking the Magic 8 Ball but instead of crappy vague answers on wet plastic triangles, something spectacular is revealed, just the way you always wanted the Magic 8-Ball to work.

I called him Thursday to inquire as to whether he had any openings for Friday or Saturday? I think this might drive him nuts:  we both know I get my haircut roughly the same week every month. We both know I’m going to get my hair cut with him. But I refuse to make a standing appointment.

I can’t help it; I love this strange thrill that sometimes occurs when he says, “Yes, there was a cancellation. I can fit you in.”

I always feel so important, so special, like I am a celebrity and just got into a five-star restaurant. I couldn’t trade that thrill for a regular, appointment. And the comparison is not entirely exaggerated. He’s been voted “Best Barber in Minneapolis” two out of the last four years. Or maybe it’s every year…I don’t know - I forget to read the plaques on the wall sometimes. We get busy chatting.

I found out he could squeeze me in, so tonight around 6pm Friday night I found myself in his chair just in time for Friday afternoon Disco Haircut Hour.

“See,” he nodded over his bifocals towards a small rotating disco ball in a plastic stand instead of from a dangling string. Faint light was bouncing off it, tracing the walls. The thing wasn’t much bigger than a golf ball, really, but this is compensated for by Disco music on the DMV music channel. Maybe the scene described sounds very night-clubby, but there was a guy waiting for a haircut reading the Star Tribune, not really noticing the Disco theme.

Today, he asked me, “How would you like your hair cut today?” About 19/20 times I get it cut the same way, but he still asks and does not assume an answer because today might be that 20th time. I am always impressed he manages to ask. There is something Buddhist in this, lack of attachment to outcome, or willingness to be open and surprised; today might be different.

I told him that I need his “Best Pentagon Haircut” because I’m headed to D.C. in a few days and I want to look sharp.

We talked about my work trip, beautiful highlights of Washington, which prompted a story from him:  in 1972 he and a friend got drunk and drove their car into the Pentagon parking lot.

We grimly joked about how that probably couldn’t happen today without my barber and his friend sobering up in Guantanamo Bay. There’s an FBI profile on Audie, we discussed it one special haircut day when the Magic 8 Ball said, “Activist Stories.” He was a political activist in the 1960s and 70s. And 80s. and 90s. This is how he lives.

We talked about his sobriety - 25 years sober. I asked him how he realized his addiction and how he got sober without AA. His story is sad and lonely at times, but ultimately he found his heart again. Now, there are two recovery homes within a two block radius from his barber shop and they send men to Audie to listen to his story. When he tells the stories about his drunken days, he doesn’t celebrate them, nor does he shame himself over it. It’s just the past.

It happened.

Over the years, three of his clientele who have sat in his chair eventually put themselves into recovery because of Audie’s friendship and stories. He didn’t tell them they needed to get sober. He just shared his heart and his own crash & burn, until they felt the uncomfortable similarity creeping into their lives. He listens mostly. But if you’re going to get his advice, you’re going to have to ask for it directly.

He interrupted the conversation next to our chair to say, “No, it’s Ted Cook’s Crab Shack. That’s the name of the place you’re thinking of - with the amazing BBQ. And please, I would know. I lived in Texas.”

The conversation meandered into the best Thai Food, the best Ethiopian food, and noodles. The Republican convention, his partner’s work schedule, Tina Fey, my work trip, where I thought I was stuck in my life.

He stopped again and addresses the conversation next to us.

“It’s GermanFest this weekend at Gasthofzg.” he explained, and then resumed clipping away. “And if you go, stay out of the basement, it’s loud and the guy with the accordian has boundary issues. I had to pay him to go play on the other side of the room.”

“What were we talking about?” he asked me.

“People in recovery.”

“Oh, yes.” He picked up where he left off. “I think she got a Fullbright Scholarship after she got sober and now she’s in southern Russia, right off the what - Crimean Sea? Oh boy, my geography…”

As he rattled off province names, Cheryl Lynn’s Got To be Real grooved over the radio station.

We’re all feeling this sexy, relaxing Disco vibe. Maybe it’s because how ridiculous our world is now, falling apart financially, this devestation of leadership and personal ownership. They say that Nero played the fiddle while Rome burned. Why not get a haircut? And while chatting, we shared our mutual fear that someone - anyone - outside the United States might accidentally hear Sarah Palin speak and then they’ll finally know it’s time to take over our insane government. Maybe someone would be kind enough to help us set up a democracy.

But at that moment, it was the Disco hour, when such fears can melt into the background of Earth, Wind and Fire’s September.

Audie shook his head at his sloppy international boundaries knowledge. Tonight when I got home, I had to google the Crimean Sea to even recognize the USSR provinces he tossed around so easily.

He has competitively judged dogs. Ran a hospital’s HR department for dozens of years. He drove a RV acrosss the counry for two years because he thought he might love it. He did. Figured as long as he was going to reinvent his life, it may as well be gorgeous while he figured things out.

I took him a jar of raspberry jam today, my annual Fall offering to this friend with whom I share life once a month. He and his partner love the jam and though I have not met his true love, I love hearing stories about their life together. Good or insane, his stories about Jon always start the same way.

“Don’t get me started.” Audie rolls his eyes and says. But it’s obvious he loves Jon.

Friday, I barely got the Jon update on his schooling when Audie interrupted the conversation in the next chair. “No, you’re thinking of that rib place on 5th. Tackiest awning you ever saw and you walk in and think, ‘I wouldn’t eat out of this hell hole, but then you taste those ribs and realize you’ll be back again. Oh honey, they’re so good, but get the sauce on the side. It’s too hot; Jon can’t eat them.”

While he talked ribs with my neighbor haircut, Disco Inferno came on the DMV radio and I chair danced, swinging around my newly shorn head, feeling the soft bristles with my hand and listening to the comparison of BBQ sauces. When he turned back to me, I had some serious shoulder humping going on.

Audie looked over his bifocals. “What are you doing. Is this a seizure?”

“Disco fever.” I told him.

“Oh my god,” he says as he trims my eyebrows. “Our Friday Disco Hour always reminds me of San Francisco in the 1970s. Oh, honey. I have some stories.”

Ah, the Magic 8-Ball has spoken.

I am almost tempted to book an appointment for next months’ Friday Disco Hour.

Almost.

This entry was posted on Saturday, October 4th, 2008 at 12:52 am and is filed under Gratitude. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.