Just Passing

7. Barbershop Talk

The next several weeks fly by in a blur of repetition and routine. Mow the lawn. Grass grows. Repeat. Empty dishwasher. Fill dishwasher. Run dishwasher. Repeat. Put on load of laundry. Transfer to dryer. Fold laundry. Put away laundry. Repeat.

The days fly by in a monotonous haze punctuated by small achievements. Nora is getting more steady on her feet. Spencer is beginning to speak in actual sentences.

And all of a sudden the school year is just around the corner.

"How the fuck is it August?" I complain.

Spencer is looking through his book on dinosaurs, hopefully not learning new curse words. Nora is equally occupied by a set of Daniel Tiger figurines.

"I don't want you to go back to work. It's so much easier when you're home," my wife pouts.

"I know, I don't want to go back either." I start to bite at my thumb nail.

"Liar."

"Well, I am looking forward to eating lunch by myself without any screaming toddlers," I admit with a chuckle. There are some positives about heading back to work.

"When's that training you're going to? I forgot to write it down."

As the elementary math curriculum coach for my school I have to go back to work before the teachers. There's a cross-district training next week, but I don't officially start back until the end of the month. "It's on Tuesday. I should probably go get a haircut during the kids' nap.

"Aw, but I like scruffy-Xander."

"My bald spot is more obvious when my hair is this long." I rub the crown of my head self-consciously.

"Honey, I hate to break it to you, but your bald spot is obvious with a buzz cut, too." She smiles endearingly.

"Whatever." I scowl. "I still should get a haircut. It looks more professional short."

"You should also shave off your beard."

"I don't have a beard! It's stubble." I stroke my cheek.

"No. A few days ago it was stubble. It's now a beard."

Huh. At what point does stubble become a beard? What's the cut off?

"You can't go during their nap. You promised to go to Home Depot and put up new shelves in the pantry, remember? Just go tonight."

Putting up shelves. I guess I do have some traditionally masculine skills. "Oh yeah. Ok." But I hate going to the barber's at night. My favorite barber only works until three. Plus, there's just one chair open during the late shift – usually Christopher's – and he's a real douche. I avoid him whenever I can. In theory I could go somewhere else to get a haircut, but I won't.

Real men get their hair cut by a barber, and in some ways I became a man when I started going to a barbershop. It was the first all-male space I ventured into, way before I ever stepped foot in a men's bathroom.

Back in high school, pre-Xander but still butch, I'd go to barbershops around town to get my haircut. They were, and still are, very different than the $15 chain haircut places my mother used to take me. Barbershops are strange racially-segregated neighborhood institutions. They almost always have wood-paneled walls decorated with black and white photos and shelves lined with talcum powder and bottles of neon orange hair tonics. You walk in, you nod at whoever else is there, and you wait your turn. You don't need to make an appointment. There is no list. No one asks for your name. And if you don't want to, you don't have to talk.

Barbershops are also where I learned that many men are sexist assholes. Even the ones - or maybe especially the ones - who wear shirts with slogans like, "Real Men Change Diapers."

Okay, well, most of the conversations I've eavesdropped on in barbershops are harmless. A lot of them have to do with sports, the weather, or lawn care. Men complain about their cars, how new businesses are changing the neighborhood, and about taxes. They reminisce about the golden days when prices were reasonable, the summers were cooler, and there was less traffic. But I've also been privy to discussions about hog hunting: a term for a group of guys going barhopping while competing to pick-up the ugliest woman. I've been lectured about why women actually like being catcalled. And I've heard my fair share of banal complaints about wives who all seem to be either nagging, hysterical, or frigid.

Sometimes it makes me question my desire to be seen as a cisgender male.

After finishing my Honey Do list, and after the kids go to bed, I jump in the car. The sun is still hovering above the horizon, but it still feels oddly scandalous to be out so late. I park in the space in front of the twirling red, white, and blue pole and I walk through the door, the service bell jingling after me.

Christopher is alone, sitting at his station and fiddling on his phone. He looks up with a smile, his bright blue eyes framed by deep laugh lines. "Hey buddy, what can I do you for?"

"Just a buzz, man. Number two," I respond as I take a seat in his chair.

He wraps a cape around my front, ties crepe paper around my neck, and pumps the chair up a few times. "Gary usually cuts your hair, right? You're never here at night." The clippers buzz to life in his hand.

"Yeah, I waited for the kids to be asleep."

"How old?"

"One and two."

"That's rough. Bet you haven't gotten laid in awhile." He laughs.

I inwardly cringe. Here we go. "They definitely tire us out."

"I remember when my kids were little, all of a sudden my wife had headaches every night. Every night. But you know she was just making excuses. Her hormones were out of whack, you know? Of course you know." He turns on the blow dryer and removes some of the clumps of black and gray hair that have fallen on my lap. "But now that the kids are older, she can't keep her hands off me." He continues to monologue, providing details of his sex life that I have no interest in hearing.

Why don't I interrupt him? Tell him to stop? What am I afraid of?

When the buzzing stops, Christopher slathers some hot foam along my sideburns and neck. He pulls a razor from a jar of antiseptic, sharpens it along the strop and then expertly shaves along my hairline. This is why I come here. This is why I put up with a conversation that makes me uncomfortable. They don't have hot foam at Supercuts.

Christopher slaps some aftershave on my neck. It tingles. "What a difference a haircut makes! Your wife's headache just might be cured by it." He winks as he slaps my shoulder.

I thank him, pay him, and leave. I feel like an ass for not telling him to stop being such a pig. But, I also feel handsome as hell. Part of me hopes Tiffany will feel the same. I can't help but grin like an idiot during my drive home. Maybe I am a bit of a slobbering dog, just like the rest of them.