Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (24 page)

I was thankful that at least I had a hairpick in my purse. How could I live it down if the stylist's narrow-toothed comb popped in two, flying across the room?

To my surprise, two women pointed toward me simultaneously: A perky blonde and a stylish brunette. The women looked at my head longingly. Here I was afraid that I wouldn't be selected, and don't tell me they were gonna fight over me!

“Jane, I should give in and let you have her.”

It was fine with me, I didn't have a preference.

“Are you sure, Megan?”

“Positive. This is only your second day. You can use the practice.”

Now, I did have a preference. But Megan had already turned toward another customer.

“You're new?” I gulped.

“Yes, g'day,” blondie smiled. “I'm Jane. I just came over from Australia.”

“G'day, I'm Stevie,” I mumbled. But I was afraid it wasn't going to be a good day for me and my hair. Maybe it wasn't too late to bolt.

“Well, Stevie, I'm anxious to forge ahead,” Jane said cheerfully as she steered me toward a row of chairs.

I made up my mind that I would just have to wear a scarf until my hair grew back. Even if I looked like Aunt Jemima, it would be preferable to the haircut this woman was about to give me.

I slumped in the chair and Jane tied a smock around me.

“Shall we start with a shampoo?”

“No, I washed my hair a couple of days ago.”

“Don't worry, the shampoo is included.”

“It's not the money. It's just that with black hair, it's easier to cut dry. It changes shape when it's wet.”

“That's right,” a loud male voice cut in. I looked up at a tall, slim man with a dark ponytail.

“Here, comb it out with a pick first,” the man instructed.

Thank goodness, somebody here knows shit from Shinola, I thought. Too bad he wasn't cutting my hair.

“Jane, have you ever cut a black person's hair before?”

I hoped the instructor would rescue me from this disaster about to happen.

“No, Peter, but I'm anxious to have the experience.”

“Great,” the instructor boomed. “I love your enthusiasm.”

“Well, I'm anxious to have a good haircut,” I cut in.

“Jane comes highly recommended.”

“Yeah, but she's never cut a black person's hair before,” I reminded the instructor. I might have to get funky if Jane messed my head up.

“Don't worry mate, I'm going to put my heart and soul into your haircut.”

“You'll look marvelous,” Peter insisted. “Remember, our motto is If You Don't Look Good, We Don't Look Good.”

“OK, I'm gonna hold you to that.”

Time had marched on. We'd chitchatted about the weather and the aborigines. Jane was still cutting, alternating between clippers and scissors. All of the other customers were gone. I closed my eyes. I didn't dare look into the mirror. This woman was a cutting fool.

But it was downright embarrassing. It seemed unfair that my hair took so long and poor Jane got the same money as the other stylists. She was probably regretting she'd ever picked me.

“This is so satisfying.”

“What is?”

“Cutting your hair. I feel like an artist, like a sculptor.”

“Oh,” I said, afraid to believe my ears. “Here I was feeling sorry for you because it was taking so long.”

“Don't be silly, mate.”

To my surprise the instructor led a group of students toward us. The teacher pointed at my head. “This type of hair can be challenging.”

I frowned. Nobody wants to have her hair called challenging. Just humiliate me to death.

“But the results can be stunning,” he continued. I let out a sigh of relief, but I was still afraid to look. I couldn't trust white folks' opinions. Didn't Mama used to say, “White people will call a monkey cute”? Then again, I couldn't ignore the pleasant chorus of oohs and ahhs from the other students.

Jane thrust a big mirror in front of me. I dared to peep into it. My hair looked good. Better than good. It was totally happening! I turned and surveyed the back of my head. I was scared of Jane! She could cut her behind off!

“You did a really good job. I love it!”

The group of students applauded as Jane glowed with pride. I never thought a five-dollar haircut would lead to this much attention. To top everything off, Jane whipped a camera out of her bag. She explained that she wanted to put me in her scrap-book. I went on and smiled, big time. Too bad I couldn't afford a tip.

“You're a bad mamajama now!” Sterling yelled his approval over a Bette Midler song when he saw the cut.

“Am I bad?” I grinned. I turned around so that Sterling could inspect the back.

“Miss Thing, you are Superbad. That's a haircut and a half.”

“You know, Miss Ann had never seen an Afro-American before today,” I laughed. “Had just left the aborigines, day before yesterday.” I clapped my hands. “But honey, she got to clipping and got to cutting, and the rest is history.” I shouted over Bette's sultry, “Do You Wanna Dance?”

Sterling nodded. “Miss Ann got down, all right.” He stretched his hand out and I gave him five. “She got all the way down!”

“In fact, this calls for the Zorro snap,” Sterling insisted, snapping his fingers in a Z.

I celebrated my twenty-second birthday on one of those rare warm San Francisco nights. Sterling took me to hear this dynamite disco queen, Sylvester, sing. Two of the black “children,” Lester and Derrick, joined us. We had all jumped clean, wearing gold chains, platform shoes, and colorful attire. Mama had mailed me a box of my clothes. And my family had sent me fifty dollars for my birthday. Anyway, the music was happening, and the North Beach Club was jam-packed with writhing, hot, sweaty bodies.

Of course, Sterling had given me the 411 on his friends. Derrick was cute and he knew it. He kept a perm in his hair and hoped you would think it was natural. He had a nice body. He was a letter carrier. Derrick and Sterling were occasional “fuck buddies,” when they were both between lovers.

Lester was another story. He was chubby with a reddish complexion. He looked more like a teddy bear than a Castro clone. To be honest, his wrist could stand to be a little stiffer. And yet there was something solid about him. Lester was hoping to find a brotha. Unlike in Oakland, many black men in San Francisco would knock him down trying to get to a white man who reminded them of Clark Gable. Lester was the type who was always stuck holding everyone else's sweaters.

Lester wasn't, interested in casual, anonymous sex (not that Lester was considered hot trade, anyway). He craved a long-term relationship. But that was hard to come by for a gay man in his twenties. Sterling said Lester would have better luck over in Oakland, where people were more settled.

Sylvester, dressed in bright flowing clothes, his face dripping with sweat, took his final bow. It had been an exhilarating show, the room was still abuzz with energy.

Hot Chocolate's “Disco Queen” blasted from the loudspeakers. Men danced together under a big, glittering silver ball. An older man with bushy sideburns walked over to Derrick and asked him what was going on.

“Ain't nothin' goin' on here, but the rent,” Derrick said coolly, and turned away.

“Derrick's a golddigger,” Lester whispered to me. “If Mr. Charlie don't wanna support ‘her,' he better keep steppin'.” Soon a hunk wearing a chain vest and tight jeans swept Derrick onto the dance floor.

Sterling looked on enviously. “Derrick thinks he's the chosen one. But most of the time, I get way more play than he does. Lester, remember that night at the Stud? My mood ring was a good color that night.”

“Yeah,” Lester agreed, “you were cooking with oil.”

“And you know, Derrick can't hold a candle to me at the baths. They can't see how small his dick is in a club.”

“You've definitely got him beat in the dick department.”

“Y'all are terrible,” I protested. “Are you forgetting that there's a lady present?”

“A lady? I thought you were a fag hag!”

“Forget you, Sterling.”

“I just spotted the perfect man for Lester.”

“Where?” Lester asked anxiously.

“Over there in that corner,” Sterling pointed. The one with the glasses. He looks like that child in the cartoons. You know that boy that be with Bullwinkle.”

“Poindexter,” I said peering at the spectacled brother in the button-down shirt.

“Sterling, you cold,” Lester frowned.

“He might be a nice guy,” I cut in. “You need to look beneath the surface. Everything that glitters isn't gold.”

“So long as I have my youth and good looks, I'm gonna be picky.” Sterling pouted.

“You need to put more emphasis on inner qualities,” I argued.

“I heard that,” Lester agreed. “Plenty of men pass me up because I'm not considered fine. But that doesn't mean I don't have something to offer.”

“Of course you do,” I assured him.

“Let's face facts, men are visual,” Sterling insisted. “And my pupils are dilating right now!” He said, cruising the place.

“It didn't take a psych major to tell us that,” Lester groaned.

Sterling rubbed his finger. “It's been real, y'all. But my mood ring has changed colors.” He strolled over to the bar and hovered next to a tanned, mustached hunk in a sleeveless undershirt and army fatigues. Sterling pulled out a cigarette, and the apple of his eye gave him a light. Sterling told me he only smoked cigarettes in clubs.

Derrick walked back to our table. He motioned toward the dude nearby with the chain vest. “John invited me over to his place. He lives in the Marina District. He even has a view of the water,” Derrick bragged.

“Some folks have all the luck.” Lester frowned. “Well, get enough for both of us.”

“It was nice meeting you, Stevie.”

“You too, Derrick.”

“Later, Lester.” Derrick tossed his head. “Tell Sterling I had love to get.”

Lester and I danced together to K.C. and the Sunshine Band's “That's the Way I Like It.” Sterling was boogeying nearby with the dude who'd lit his fire at the bar.

“Lester, you're a really good dancer.”

“Too bad I don't get more practice,” he sighed.

“Don't worry, your ship will come in one day.”

“Yeah, but don't hold my breath, right?”

“You deserve someone special. It's quality, not quantity.”

“Thanks, you're really sweet.”

“I bet most of the men in here are too shallow for you. Look at them.”

“I'm looking.” Lester spun around on the dance floor. “I'm looking. I'm always looking.”

“Check out that one over there gyrating in those shiny gold hot pants. He leaves nothing to the imagination.”

“Honey, I can sho' imagine him without his shorts.” Lester drooled as the guy bumped his groin against his dance partner to Donna Summer's “Love to Love You Baby.”

“And look at that one in the torn cutoffs. You can see his butt.”

“Where?” Lester panted like a dog. “Wow, if I could just have one night with him. I swear, I would die a happy man,” he joked.

“What are those dudes in the ruffled shirts inhaling?” I asked.

Lester eyed the couple sniffing from a vial. “That's probably amyl nitrite. It's an upper. It's supposed to be an aphrodisiac.”

Lester bought me a beer and we lounged against the wall.

“Clint, say hi to the birthday girl,” Sterling said, hanging on to his new squeeze.

Lester and I shook hands with the muscular dude.

Sterling took a drag off of his cigarette. “What happened to Derrick?”

“He gotta pull,” Lester reported.

“Clint asked me if I wanted to go to the baths. But I told him I couldn't ditch the birthday girl.”

“I didn't know he had company,” Clint said shyly. He tugged at the red bandanna around his neck.

“No, you go head on,” I said. “I'm cool.”

“No, that would be cold,” Sterling protested. “Not unless you and Lester wanna hang out,” he added hopefully.

“I'm enjoying Lester's company. But I don't wanna cramp his style.”

Sterling looked surprised, as if he wanted to ask, What style?

Even Lester appeared at a loss for words. “I … I … don't have to cruise tonight. It's your birthday. We can hang out together if you want to.”

“Sterling, just go. I'll be fine,” I insisted. “If Lester hooks up with somebody, I'll check out a women's bar I read about in the
People's Yellow Pages
.”

Clint winked. “She sounds like the kinda girl who can take care of herself.”

“Gon' Ms. Birthday Girl, wit yo' bad self.” Sterling stretched his palm out and we gave each other five. “Here I was worrying about you, and you hunting down your next piece of ass just like the rest of us.” He smiled.

I knew that I was looking for more. But I didn't say anything.

After Sterling and his date had spaced the place, Lester said, “I wish I could dip Clint in chocolate. Then he would really be fine.”

“That reminds me of one of my grandmother's stories,” I said. “She was visiting family down South. And all the girls were talking about wanting to meet somebody fine. ‘What happens to all the homely men?' Grandma asked. Her niece answered, ‘Those are the ones we marry.'”

Lester took a swallow of beer. “Let me sip on that.” He rested his elbow on the wall ledge and held his chin. “You know what? I'm gonna go over there and ask that brotha to dance.”

“Who?”

Lester nodded toward the guy Sterling teased him about earlier.

“Poindexter?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?” I asked surprised.

“Yeah, he looks like the marrying kind.”