Why I Don't Have A Hook For A Hand

 

     I was up the other night watching a program on the SciFi Channel, an interesting interpretation of the Peter Pan story. When the crocodile ate Captain Hook’s hand I was reminded of an incident that took place a few years back on a journey to Costa Rica.

     Central America is a wild and beautiful place; Costa Rica has reserved a quarter of its territory as a national park. I had just boarded a bus leaving San Jose, the capital and home to most of Costa Rica’s population. We were traveling through jungle covered  mountains and headed toward the sea. The rainy season was overdue and the air inside the bus was rank and humid. I breathed a sigh of relief when we pulled to the side of the unpaved road to enjoy the slight breeze, stretch our legs and paw through souvenirs displayed near a dried up creek.

     I had all the souvenirs I needed and, feeling like Indiana Jones, decided to explore the bottom of the creek. A local dark skinned boy of about ten saw what I was up to, shook his head and said something I didn’t understand in Spanish. As I proceeded to climb down he grabbed me by my shirttails and wouldn’t let go. He kept pointing at something in the creek.

     I didn’t see anything, just a bunch of old logs in scattered puddles. Then a bird flew by and landed near one of the puddles. A log moved. It was a crocodile, ten to twelve feet long, moving faster than I would have imagined. The bird barely managed to escape the croc’s snapping jaws.

     The boy smiled at my open-mouthed expression. I handed him a few dollars, all that I had. I had no idea that crocodiles inhabited Costa Rica and can only imagine what might have happened had I climbed down there. I’m not nearly as fast as that bird. I could have ended up with a hook of my own.

     I did manage to snap a few pictures. Have you ever made a near-fatal mistake on a vacation? I’d like to hear about it.

Losing My Hair: The House Of Estrada

 

     There comes a time when many men confront their worst fear: not that they’re mortal and not likely to achieve the life goals they’ve set, but the realization that their hair is making a pilgrimage to the shower drain. I was shocked when I noticed my comb was harboring more strands than usual, and horrified when I pulled a goopy wad from the shower drain.

     My hair began falling out a few years after I married Mrs. Chatterbox in 1974. I didn’t want to draw attention to my problem. If my future involved a nasty comb over and hats to cover my balding head from the sun, I wanted to hide this bitter reality from my bride as long as I could. I chose to confide in Randi, a gay coworker at the paint/hardware store where I worked. I’d overheard Randi giving advice to a customer distraught over hair loss.

     I cornered Randi in the lunchroom at the back of the store. He was eating a cucumber sandwich with the crusts neatly trimmed off. He looked surprised when I sat down and said, “You have a great head of hair. I was hoping to talk to you about…the fact is—I think I’m losing my hair. A few weeks ago I overheard you recommending a salon to a customer complaining about hair loss and I was hoping you’d tell me where you sent him.”  

     Randi examined my hair and said, “You don’t look like you’re losing your hair. Are you finding clumps of it in your comb?”

   I nodded.

   “And the shower drain?”

   My horrified expression answered for me.

   He finished another bite of sandwich and delicately wiped the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin. “You need to go see Oscar.”

   “Oscar?”

   “Yes, Oscar Estrada. He owns the House of Estrada in North Hollywood. The man is a genius with hair. Did you see the movie Shampoo with Warren Beatty?”

   I admitted that I had.

   “Well, Oscar learned how to cut hair from someone who knows the guy who trained the stylist to do Warren’s hair for the movie.” 

   “Do you think this Oscar can stop my hair from falling out?”

   “He’s a follicle wizard. Besides, he was once practically bald from over-treatments and now he’s got the most gorgeous hair around.” He opened his wallet and gave me a purple card engraved with: The House of Estrada. “Give him a call. Tell him Randi sent you so I can get a discount on my next visit.” He returned to his cucumber sandwich.

     North Hollywood wasn’t the sort of place I frequented but with my hair at stake I wasn’t about to chicken out. I’d never been to a hair salon, having followed my dad’s example of only frequenting barbers with traditional red and white barber’s poles near the entrance. Once inside The House of Estrada I was engulfed in purple, a color I associated with Roman emperors and the girls’ aisle at Toys’ R Us. A fellow glided up and guided me to a waiting area. I checked out the two magazines he handed me while I waited for Oscar. One magazine pictured gay men doing what gay men do, and even though they were doing disgusting things to each other they both had great hair, especially on their heads. The other magazine was a Playboy. I hid behind it.

     I was halfway through a comprehensive article on best cheerleader “beavers” when Oscar showed up. He had silver hair down to his shoulders and a goatee to match. He was dressed all in black, and if he’d had a cape he would have been a dead ringer for The Count of Monte Cristo. I followed him to a private room and was ordered to sit in the only chair while Oscar stood and fondled my hair in a way that made me, I’m ashamed to admit, tingle.

     When he’d finished examining me he said, “I must say, you’re doing a very poor job of maintaining this beautiful head of hair.”

      I ignored the scolding. “Do you think you can stop my hair from falling out?”

     He sifted strands of my hair through his long pale fingers. “Yes, I can stop the hair loss and repair the damage you’ve done, provided you follow my instructions to the letter. You must do exactly what I tell you. This won’t be cheap, but before long people will stop you in the grocery store just to touch your hair.”

   “Really?”

   “Yes, really. We’re all animals and our bodies were once covered in fur; the hair on our heads is mostly what remains of our fur.  Listen well—treat your hair like fur!  Repeat that out loud.”

   “I will treat my hair like fur.” I ignored the discomfort I felt talking about the fur on my body.

   “I will cut your hair today, but it will only be a trim. Ultimately, it will take three cuts to achieve perfection.”

   “How expensive will this be?”

   “Perfection is not cheap. Of course, you could just go to Floyd the local barber and end

up as bald as the other grease monkeys at the next truck and tractor pull. It’s really up to you.” 

      I resolved to do whatever he ordered. Short of becoming his cabana boy, I’d do anything to keep from going bald. He sold me three products and carefully explained what they were for: first, a cleanser to remove dirt and oil; second, a conditioner to make my hair manageable; third, a strengthener to regenerate my hair and make it shiny. I was required to perform a regimen every morning requiring me to be in the shower nearly as long as Rip Van Winkle was in the forest, but if all went according to plan I’d be spared the dreaded comb over.

     Sue couldn’t understand why I’d spent nearly a hundred and fifty dollars on hair supplies and why I was camping out in the shower for so long. She did see a difference in my hair. Before long she couldn’t keep from caressing it. I noticed that the hairball in the shower drain was diminishing, and by the time I received my third cut at The House of Estrada my comb was nearly free of hair.

     My goal was achieved one day when a lady in the grocery store reached out to touch my hair. She was a nun, but it still counted.

The Other Woman

     Rick said it best in Casablanca: “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in the world, she walks into mine.” Like Ilsa, my femme fatale had no idea I was here when she flew into town. 

     I read about her arrival in the newspaper. Titian’s La Bella had arrived in Portland; her smiling face filled an entire page. I hadn’t seen her in years, but she’d fluttered through my thoughts too many times to count. She’d aged well over the years, not that it mattered; I’d always had a thing for older women. Still, no expense had been spared keeping her preternaturally in her prime, no easy task since she was over four hundred years old.

     I’d met her years earlier, back when I was a boy. I’d fallen in love with her immediately. She wasn’t capable of seeing me as I was back then, a dreamy kid with ridiculous dreams, but it didn’t matter because I was invisible to her. She was accustomed to being adored, worshipped by hordes of enchanted young men queuing up for hours just to catch a glimpse of her. I was no different from other red-blooded males who felt something stir inside them while gazing at her perfect features. For me, La Bella was the clapper striking the bell of my burgeoning sexuality. 
     Art historians have never been able to discover her identity. Titian, nicknamed The Prince of Painters, was Venice’s most celebrated artist and La Bella resembled other women in his oeuvre. It’s possible she was an ideal, a female composite, yet there was something ineffably real about the quality of her skin. Her creator was a master at creating the illusion of palpitating flesh, and certain depictions of her still make me blush. She first came to me hidden in a copy of Reader’s Digest when I was twelve, like Cleopatra in her rug. She was posed as Venus—Venus of Urbino to be precise—and she took my young breath away. She was the first naked woman I ever saw. In my imagination she was immortal.

     Years ago I went to visit her in her mansion in Italy, to pay homage to her charm, sophistication and beauty, but I was like a mote of dust dancing in the air. She paid me no heed. I stood before her at the Pitti Palace in Florence and studied her sumptuous dress, imagined it slipping from her pale shoulders to expose the ivory and rosy pinkness that, over the years, had seared itself into my memory. 
     “I still love you,” I mumbled at her picture in the newspaper. 
     Mrs. Chatterbox, her nose buried in another section of the paper, was seated on the far end of the couch. She must’ve thought I was talking to her. “I love you, too,” she said. 
     But my wife’s next sentence was proof she’d been reading my mind more closely than the newspaper. “When are you going to see her?” 
     “What are you talking about?” I asked. 
     “The painting by Titian that’s on loan to the Portland Art Museum, La Bella—it’s one of your favorites, isn’t it?” 
     So she’d already read the article about Titian’s visiting La Bella, seen the photograph in the paper. “It’s true that I’m an admirer of Titian’s work.” 
     “Quite the understatement, if you ask me. You’ve flown to Britain, Italy and Spain to see Titian’s work.” 
     No point denying it. 
     She refolded her section of the paper, rose from the couch and left the room. A few minutes later she returned and pressed something into my hand. A ticket. “Titian’s La Bella goes on exhibit this Monday. I was going to put this ticket in your Christmas stocking but I doubt you can wait that long.” 
     “I think you’re being a bit melodramatic.” 
     “Am I?” 
     I changed the subject. “Only one ticket? Aren’t you going with me?” 
     “No. I think you two should be alone.” 
     I fondled the ticket long after Mrs. Chatterbox had gone. La Bella’s face was on the ticket, her four hundred year old gaze beckoning me like a siren to the rocks. I told myself I wasn’t going to the exhibit, I could resist seeing her, but I was lying to myself. Of course I’d go. 
     Mrs. Chatterbox had made it possible, not by providing a ticket but by removing the danger I’d confronted so long ago. La Bella was dangerous, as were most mythological monsters. She could promise love but could never deliver on that promise. To be locked in her imaginary embrace could be an eternal straight-jacket.
     Now I had a siren of my own, a woman adept at delivering more than promises. I would reflect one last time at the altar of my faded youth before turning forever to the flesh and bone lover capable of beckoning me home to safety.