TURNING POINT Friday, October 22, 1993 (Henry is 30)

TURNING POINT


Friday, October 22, 1993 (Henry is 30)

HENRY: I am strolling down Linden Street, in South Haven, at large for an hour while
Clare and her mother do something at the florist’s. The wedding is tomorrow, but as
the groom I don’t seem to have too many responsibilities. Be there; that’s the main
item on my To Do list. Clare is constantly being whisked away to fittings,
consultations, bridal showers. When I do see her she always looks rather wistful.

It’s a clear cold day, and I dawdle. I wish South Haven had a decent bookstore.
Even the library consists mainly of Barbara Cartland and John Grisham. I have the
Penguin edition of Kleist with me, but I’m not in the mood. I pass an antiques shop, a
bakery, a bank, another antiques shop. As I walk by the barber shop I peer in; there’s
an old man being shaved by a dapper little balding barber, and I know at once what
I’m going to do.

Little bells clang against the door as I walk into the shop. It smells of soap, steam,
hair lotion, and elderly flesh. Everything is pale green. The chair is old and ornate
with chrome, and there are elaborate bottles lining dark wooden shelves, and trays of
scissors, combs, and razors. It’s almost

medical; it’s very Norman Rockwell. The barber glances up at me. “Haircut?” I
ask. He nods at the row of empty straight-backed chairs with magazines neatly
stacked on a rack at one end of the row. Sinatra is playing on the radio. I sit down and
leaf through a copy of Reader’s Digest. The barber wipes traces of lather from the old
man’s chin, and applies aftershave. The old man climbs gingerly from the chair and
pays up. The barber helps him into his coat and hands him his cane. “See you,
George,” says the old man as he creeps out. ‘“Bye, Ed,” replies the barber. He turns
his attention to me. “What’ll it be?” I hop into the chair and he steps me up a few


inches and swivels me around to face the mirror. I take a long last look at my hair. I
hold my thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Cut it all off.” He nods his
approval and ties a plastic cape around my neck. Soon his scissors are flashing little
metal on metal noises around my head, and my hair is falling to the floor. When he is
done he brushes me off and removes the cape and voila, I’ve become the me of my
future.