Haircut

I raced off of the train staring at a blank wrist. My watch is missing. But one glance at my cell phone tells me that I'm ten minutes late for my appointment. As I rush down the stairs I take care not to trip over shoes that have no shoelaces. I quickly sidestep the two teens holding pamphlets urging me to vote as I race down the block to see Carlos, my regular barber. I arrive huffing from the cold, sharp air that fills my lungs. Gradually, the sweat that creeps down my back begins to sting as the warmth of being inside with a jacket and scarf on adds to the previously generated body heat that comes from sprinting up the block. He's with another customer as it turns out. I end up waiting another ten minutes anyway. My running had been in vain. I return to the book I began reading on the train this morning. Kite Runner. I'm already on page 94. CNN plays on a nearby TV while an oldies station fills the room with a quiet soundtrack. As I read, I switch my MP3 player on to find the music magically syncing with key points in the book. I anxiously jump from word to word in an effort to align with the crescendo of the song. The ensuing rush causes me to skip over whole sentences and I'm forced to stumble backwards as the music drifts without me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man shake Carlos' hand to signify another job well done. As I curse myself for letting the excitement of matching the story to the music ruin the incidental flow, I move towards the barber's chair and place my glasses on the counter. Carlos looks tired; I'm his last customer of the day. He still manages a smile as he slips the smock around my neck. The usual, he asks. And I nod my head in agreement. We don't exchange pleasantries as we normally do. It's been a long day for both of us. I hold back from asking him about who he'll vote for because that could open up a can of worms. Instead, I let my mind wander, as it normally does during haircuts. I become drowsy as the buzz of the razor lulls me to slowly shut my eyes. I awaken when the razor nicks my ear. He doesn't offer an apology and I don't expect one. I start thinking about Kite Runner again and about the idea of defending someone. Perhaps it's the older brother complex, but I feel compelled to stick up for somebody. Anybody. But when the opportunity does come, will I live by my word? As Carlos unbuttons the smock to shave the back of my neck, I suddenly become aware of Obama speaking on the television. He speaks of his grandmother being a quiet American hero. Meanwhile, the radio begins to play "How Do I Live Without You?" Another instance of music matching life. The re-buttoned smock feels too tight around my neck. To ease the discomfort, I pull at it from underneath to give myself some breathing room. I do this every time and I wonder if Carlos ever notices. He asks if I would like gel and I oblige even though I'm just going to take a shower when I get home. As I reach into my wallet for his tip, I stare at my naked wrist once again. I really need to find my watch.