How to Play Dead

Vol. 3, Issue 36

We just moved to a new neighborhood a few months ago and I’d only had one haircut since the pandemic, so I was excited there was a place only a block away. In late June, right before my parents visited, I made an appointment and it was scheduled the morning before their flight from Florida landed at LAX. It was my Dad’s birthday and Father’s Day weekend so I wanted to do what I could to look presentable.

The place is called [REDACTED]. It’s kind of an old lady salon, with lots of garish wallpaper and goofy pineapple paintings for sale. The man who cut my hair was named [REDACTED]. He was probably 60, possibly 70. He had poofy gray-black hair, blown dry in such a way that he resembled a faded doo-wop star. He wore flowy clothing, a floral-patterned shirt, and sandals, the kind of outfit people his age would wear on cruises to Caribbean islands. When he walked behind me to settle me into the chair, I couldn’t help but hear steel drums. He had a faint accent, and he said his mother was Spanish. He was a nice fella. Everything was normal and fine until it was not. 

When he leaned in to cut my hair, his crotch rubbed up against my knee and then across my thigh. Then it happened again, on my other leg. It made me uncomfortable but I said nothing because I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. I pulled my knees up a bit, moved around in my chair. Then it happened again. He kept the conversation brisk and friendly the whole time, he seemed oblivious to what he was doing. He asked about my family, how long we’d lived in our new house, how old were my kids, what kind of dog I had. I answered every question because I was frozen in that chair. Trapped, ashamed, whatever. 

He spun me around and I straightened my legs, then I slumped in an attempt to keep it from happening again. “Could you pull up for me a bit?” he asked.  “Sure, sure,” I said. “Sorry.” I didn’t want to offend him. 

And once I pulled up there it was again – his crotch, higher this time. “Lemme get your eyebrows,” he said. He was basically straddling me now. There were other people – two old ladies, actually– in the shop but no one could see what was happening to me. Maybe this was just how he cut people’s hair. I lost track of the number of times he rubbed his dick on my leg but it was definitely close to 20. After around 15, I just let it happen. 

The haircut ended and he spun me around again so I could look in the mirror at myself. “It looks great!” What else was I supposed to say?

He tried to get me to sit so he could brush the hair off, but I got up and quickly undid the smock. I had my credit card out and ready to swipe before he even made it to the front desk area but he waved me away.“Oh, I should have told you – I accept cash only. Just come back tomorrow with a check or cash or however you’d like to pay,” he said. He made a big show of it like he was giving me special treatment. “I trust you! Come back tomorrow!” Then I panicked. “I’ll just pay now.” 

I fast-walked the .31 miles to the nearest ATM and took out $100 and then fast-walked all the way back. I went in, and he was not at the counter, he was back by that horrible chair, swiping his phone like it was a normal workday. I handed him $80. “Thanks, buddy!” I said. I don’t know why I called him “buddy” but –

No, actually I do.

*****

I worked at a South Philly deli when I was 17 and the guy who cut the lunch meat – this puny little guy named Danny – would greet all the customers like this: “What can I get ya, buddy?” Then he’d slice out a pound of salami or provolone and wrap it up in that heavy meat-wrapping paper, then he’d rip and slap on some masking tape and write “Prov” on it with a Sharpie. He’d hand it back over the counter without even looking at the customer, smooth as can be. They’d thank him, and he’d say, “No problem, buddy!” and he’d already be on to the next customer. “What do ya need, buddy?” or if it was a woman he’d say, “What can I get for ya, hun?” It was honey and buddy all day between 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. As I  said, he was small, almost runty, but behind the counter, in his oversized filthy white apron, with that meat slicer whirring, he was in total control, an absolute giant.

That was the energy I wanted to put out there. Because in that chair, I felt 9, the age I was when I was sexually abused by a child psychologist, a man who hypnotized me and then touched me and took something away from me. You know the drill.  

But wait – that’s what I believe happened. That moment is lost to time, to fear, to shame, to my imagination even. My current therapist thinks it happened. My old therapist, too. Other people with similar traumatic histories believe me, too, but maybe they’re just being polite.

Still: When I was frozen in that chair and I couldn’t push that hairdresser off my knee or get up or leave or react in a way that demonstrated I was protective of my space and my body – I did not do any of those things because I don’t have those type of responses in me. And that’s when I know it’s real. 

*****

At an AA meeting a few months ago, a man we’ll call Mitchell qualified and told his awful story about his own sexual abuse history during the What It Was Like portion of the share. He mentioned that he was sexually abused several times when he was a teenager, but he didn’t recognize it was abuse until he got sober almost 30 years later – and that was only after his therapist told him what he’d experienced was not okay. He retold his story with such admirable composure. It was like he was relieved that he finally had some answers for why he was the way he was. “It left me without any boundaries for so long,” he said. “I didn’t know what boundaries were.” He’d just let people do things to him he didn’t want them to do over and over again. He thought that was normal! So he people-pleased. He drank. He had weird sex issues. All the hits.

I knew exactly what he meant because I realized, just then, that I had no boundaries either. Like, truly. What are boundaries! It was both a horrifying but welcome discovery. I had no boundaries and I didn’t respect other people’s boundaries and that tore me up. If I looked at a map and you asked me to point out the boundaries I would point at the ocean – but where it began, where it ended, where it fell off the earth, man, I don’t know. Everything else between the landmasses is meaningless. There were only imaginary lines.

Four days after what happened in the salon, I called Mitchell up to talk about it. I told him that it was almost a week later and I was still getting bombarded with thoughts – the frozenness of my body, revenge plots, failed opportunities to connect deeply with other humans, guilt over my absence of boundaries. He understood. “Don’t go back to that place again,” he said. He was right. I needed to hear that. Because if he didn’t tell me that I probably would have gone back to get my haircut there again. 

I called Mitchell up yesterday to give him an update on my progress. He told me to remember something that was very, very important: “You have every right to say something when you feel uncomfortable.” 

*****

When I began writing internet stories for various McSweeney’s knock-off sites, I got paid no money but I always hoped that someday an important editor would read one of my essays, be blown away by my skill, and immediately offer me a paid assignment. (I got rejected by McSweeney’s every single time I submitted something over there.) I desperately wanted to become a Funny-Sad essay guy. 

Here’s an example of a Funny-Sad essay I wanted to write: Let me tell you about the first time I took meth. I wanted to buy coke but nobody’s dealer was around and it was late but a friend of mine who was the editor of one of the New York City alt-weeklies would use meth on deadlines to help him crank out an issue. I always wanted to try meth, so he came over with it that night. I rubbed some on my gums and, man, it was GREAT. 6 A.M. came quickly and instead of passing out, I was up. And not just up, I had insane energy, like I could move pianos or flip trucks over or pulverize rocks with my fists. Instead, I thought a better use of my awake-ness would be to enjoy a lovely New York City morning. I’d get a relaxing breakfast at Odessa. Take a walk across the Williamsburg Bridge. Find a soft bench where I’d cross my legs and read a beat-up paperback before the afternoon heat pushed me away. Endless adventures awaited. 

But first, I’d shave. I never had time to shave before work in the morning and I was usually too tired to do it. And when I dragged that razor down my cheekbone it felt incredible. So then I shaved my chest – also incredible. Then I shaved one forearm. Then the next. WOW. I ran out of shaving gel just as I got halfway done with my left calf. Smooth as a swimmer around 35% of my body. No problem. I’d finish the rest of it later on – but only after I could get my hands on some more meth. 

See? Dark and silly. Funny and sad. Maybe that’s what this essay is supposed to be.

*****

I talked to my old therapist last week – the one I abandoned when I moved away from in NYC five years ago – both to make amends and to get some insight about who he saw sitting across from him at that period of time. First, I apologized for my dishonesty with him. What was I dishonest about? Drinking. Drugs. All of it. He would ask me how much I drank and I’d say a number but it was usually double that amount. “That’s okay,” he said. “No apology necessary.” 

I told him about what happened in the salon. Did he think I had boundary issues? “You had a drinking problem. I’m sorry I didn’t recommend you get help for that sooner.” We talked for more than an hour. I asked him if he still had Zell, because I also remembered I bounced a few checks on him before. “A.J.! There is no charge. We’re just catching up. I’m happy to hear you’re doing so well – but I’m also so sorry that happened to you.” Then he suggested I do some more EMDR. He was always such a kind man. I said we’d keep in touch. 

*****

I waited some time to write about this but knew I needed to because this is what writing about this does  – it casts a line out into the world, into that big ocean. Even if it just drags along the bottom, collects seaweed or plastic bags, any sort of connection helps. What I really want to know is if it was a dream and maybe someone else had the same dream. Even if it was just a dream, I want to know. Tell me it was a dream and I’ll shut up about it and accept that it never happened. I want someone who has access to all those secret hearts, someone to grab me by the forearm, look me in both eyes, and tell me what to do or how to act. Sometimes I just need someone to shake me until my head falls off.

*****

When I got back from the hair salon, there were worms in my stomach. Then the hairdresser sent me a text. “Hi, Thank you so much. Great meeting [sic], hope your wife approves of your haircut.” He also called me twice, about 30 minutes apart. When I saw that it was his number, I turned my phone face down. I wanted him to think I was dead.

*****

My parents had landed and they were on their way, they were just waiting for an Uber. The emotional turbulence of their arrival had now shifted over to this fucker at the hair salon. Before they got there I scoured Yelp to look for some evidence, maybe a scathing one-star review about the place, maybe something like “The hairdresser rubbed his dick against my leg!” No dice. Then I went to the salon’s website to see if there was some sort of About Us page, even though I don’t know how that would help me at all. I think I wanted to make sure he wasn’t just another phantom. There wasn’t any trace of him anywhere on the site. But there was this: “All Major Credit Cards Accepted.” Then I almost puked. 

*****

I was so anxious the week before my parents arrived because it’s always something with them and I didn’t know what to expect. When their Uber pulled up, I saw how much dementia had shrunk my father, so much so he needed a walker now. I helped him get out of the car. I carried their heavy suitcases up the front stairs. When my mom hugged me the first thing she did was compliment my haircut. So did my Dad. “You look like a million bucks!” 

And they were right. It was a great haircut. – AJD