By Karen Regen Tuero
My Hairdresser Wears Combat Boots
The first thing I noticed about my new hairdresser was not the stylish joggers, but the combat boots. They gave me well-placed confidence in his ability to tackle my troublesome hair. But during my last visit, he was distracted. The result wasn’t a disastrous haircut – it was as masterful as ever – but he forgot the finishing touch, the serum he always draws through my curls, leaving an almond scent.
I couldn’t blame him. In his homeland, his brother and his cousin had been conscripted into the ground war. Two days earlier, his brother stopped to tie his boot, and his cousin – his battle buddy – stayed behind, waiting. During those seconds, the eight other soldiers in their squad went ahead into the tunnel and got blown up.
His brother and his cousin were safe, but under investigation for this boot lacing incident, sidelined from combat until cleared.
“In a way, that’s good,” I said. “At least they’re out of harm’s way.”
My hairdresser agreed, but said they both liked fighting for their homeland, doing their part.
I took that in, then said, “But do you think, in this case, your brother sensed something, that the other soldiers didn’t? You know, used the boot lacing as an excuse?”
“Maybe,” my hairdresser said. “He’s always been very aware of his surroundings.”
“Wow, survival of the fittest,” I said, knowing how hackneyed this sounded.
“Could be. Well, thank God, he’s alive. My cousin too. But those eight other souls,” he said and I watched him in the mirror as he patted my curls before taking off my cape more slowly than usual.
“Another great cut,” I said and, after thanking him, paid the bill. He showed me his phone. Crouching soldiers firing machine guns. A fresh corpse lining the alley.
As I put on my coat, I watched him use the broom to sweep my curls from the floor, then to brush off the toe boxes of his boots. He hung his head, staring at the dark laces tied to the top, ending in perfect secure loops.
“He’s not going to be the same,” he said. “Ever.”
“How old is he?” I asked.
“Thirty-two.”
“Married?”
“No.”
I asked what kind of work he did before being conscripted, and learned he was a Marine.
“It’s what he’s good at,” my hairdresser said.
“Mmm,” I said.
“I told him I could join him, but he said I should stick to hair.”
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