Education At Gino Vento's

Sun-faded cardboard photographs of 1970’s hairstyles were tacked to the brown paneled walls. His counter was cluttered with the shiny tools of his trade, a chipped glass bowl laden with lollypops, and a jar of combs in blue liquid. National Geographic, Sports Illustrated, and Life were spread out like Chinese fans on the coffee table. On the shelf, above the coat hooks with forgotten umbrellas and orphaned scarves, and smelling faintly of cigarettes and of mystery, lay a stack of glossy Playboys. I was tall enough, but not brave enough, and that brass ring was never grabbed. I sat in Gino’s cold metal and pleather chair and thought about warm flesh and silky hair. I pictured a model on a bearskin rug in front of a crackling fire, clutching a champagne flute, or a long-stemmed rose, or another pointless prop. Images cavorted as Gino’s quick hands floated around my teenaged head and his silver and snipping scissors danced the Barber’s Waltz. Comb, snip, snip comb, snip, snip. Puckered red lips blew kisses and high heels clicked through my head between clouds of talcum and splashes of hair tonic.