Bald Spot

A couple days before our trip to Chicago, Scott decides to cut his hair. He doesn’t want to go back to the Greek barbershop down the road in Astoria. The Greeks like the wet shave. Scott doesn’t trust strangers to wet shave his throat. I don’t blame him.  So he avoids the barbeshop entirely and buys himself an electric beard trimmer from the local pharmacy. That night, we stand on a towel in the bathroom looking across to his reflection. We read the appliance’s manual and Scott directs me to start trimming.  I hold it way Scott says, but the terrain is bumpy and he is soon crying out in pain.  “Sorry.” “OW!” “Sorry!” It feels like I’m mowing a mountain with a blender. Some hairs hit the blades. Some are pulled out by the blades. And all the remaining hairs are left tall and untouched. “Fuck it. I’ll do it.” He says, lowering his head over the sink and running the buzzing electric blade over his scalp with very little attempt to do it well.  This really gets me laughing. “What are you DOING? You’re not even looking…oh       God.” There in the back of his head is a small but undeniable bald spot. This was a terrible idea. He adjusts the blade. Now he needs to even it out, he tells me.