I’m one of those guys who is never excited to get a haircut.  In fact, when I do get my haircut I usually ask them to trim my hair wa

y down with one of those number three razors to a moderately short length, not just because I like it short, but because the shorter it is the longer it will be before my next haircut.  Then I let it grow for a month-to-six-weeks until it looks like a big poofy bowl before I feel compelled to go back for a clipping. 

            But I must admit, as much as I hate getting my hair cut, I really do like going to James’ Styles in my home town in Pennsylvania.  It is a really cool place to go for a trip.

            Let me set the stage for you.

            First of all, this hair place is located in a small town in Pennsylvania, which is a really old-fashioned slice of USA Americana with a strong German cultural presence, down the road from an enormous church and a fortress-like bank.  The thing is, James’ Styles sticks out like a sore thumb because the place is bright, bright yellow with a candy-striped awning and a giant cartoon of James himself painted on the glass façade.  And the cartoon of James looks remarkably like the real James, who is a skinny British guy with blonde spiky hair and permanent five-o’clock shadow.  He’s around forty years old and looks like he could have been a member of the Police, or could have played the comic book character John Constantine: Hellblazer in a movie.  He’s a cool dude.   (His name is also James Styles, so the title of his business is a pun combined with a well-placed apostrophe.)

            As for staff, James’s usually got three gorgeous young women who do haircuts alongside him.  I think of them as James’s Angels.  Unlike Charlie’s Angels, these go out on missions to give perms instead of to stop Russian spies.  Since James is cool, I like it when he cuts my hair.  However, I must admit that I may like it a little more when one of James’s Angels cuts my hair.

            Completing the ensemble is James’s dog.  I’m not sure what his name is, but he is a Cockapoo – cross-breed between a Cocker Spaniel and a poodle – and he’s the cutest dog I’ve ever seen.  Whenever I enter the store, there’s the dog by the door trying to escape.  I have to nudge him back indoors with my foot, step inside, and close the door behind me.  Then I sit on my heels next to the dog and say.  “Who’s a cute little Cockapoo?  Who’s a cute little Cockapoo?”  And the dog barks and wags his tail. 

              So, I usually go in, get seated right away, get the hair buzzed with a number three razor, and then have the hair washed and the length blended with scissors.  During the scissors mode of the haircut, I get to settle into the barber’s chair, with the giant smock choking my neck, and I listen to the outrageous conversations going on around me.  A few months back, I overheard a real doozy.

            At the time, one of James’s Angels was cutting my hair.  Sarah.  James was cutting the hair of a portly woman of about sixty five.  It was just the four of us and the Cockapoo.

            I noticed that the music being played over the speakers was unusual.  It wasn’t the never-ending stream of Phil Collins songs I’d hear on easy listening stations since moving to Pennsylvania.  Nor was it the usual short list of classic rock songs I’d been tortured with for decades in New York.  (Q-104.3 only seemed to play Limelight, Black Dog, Comfortably Numb, Foxy Lady, and Pinball Wizard.)  But the station they were listening to played only weird Gothic music, by the likes of Rasputina and Switchblade Symphony.  There were also no commercials.

            “Is this satellite radio?” I asked.

            “Sirius,” Sarah said.  “Isn’t it awesome?”

            “The Goth station?” I asked.

            “Yep.”

            “Thank you for playing the Goth station.” James said.  “It is so much better than that 80s crap station you were playing yesterday.”

            “I love 80s music,” Sarah proclaimed.  “Guns and Roses, Nelson, Winger, Poison, Kiss, Europe, Def Leppard.”

            “Oh, you’re killing me,” James cried in pain.  “You’re goddam killing me.”

            “I also love 70s music,” Sarah said.  “’You Light Up My Life.’  The Carpenters.  Neil Diamond.  Kenny Rogers.  All those love songs.”

            The older woman in James’ care cut in then.  “That’s my music you’re talking about.”

            “And its crap,” James said.  “Sorry, Marge.”

            “It’s okay,” said Marge.  “I didn’t like it at the time.  I like it better now because of the memories it triggers … you know … nostalgia … but I still don’t think it is good music.”

            “Well, I love it,” Sarah proclaimed.  “And I love Neil Diamond.  In fact, I want to marry Neil Diamond.  Always have.”

            “Isn’t Neil Diamond about five decades older than you?” I asked.

            Sarah paused cutting my hair and looked at me.  “Yeah?  So?  I still wanna marry him.”

            “What if he’s so old even the Viagra doesn’t help the relationship?” James asked.

            “Well, then I guess we’ll have to divorce, because I need sex in my marriage.  And I guess I’d get half his estate.  And that would make me rich.”

            “I guess so,” said James.

            “But I wouldn’t want Neil Diamond to hate me.  Do you think you can be friends with your ex?  I’d like to divorce Neil Diamond, but still be friends with him.  Is that possible?”

            Silence fell across the salon.  The Cockapoo trotted by, panting.

            After a moment, James said, “I think it is possible.  If my wife wanted a divorce, I’d just hand her most of the money in my account, and the house.  More than half.  She would deserve it for putting up with all of my crap all these years.”

            “Really?” asked Sarah.

            “Sure.  I’m a difficult husband.  I’ll be the first to admit it.”

            “That’s really very evolved of you,” Margie said.  “I don’t know many men who’d admit it.”

            “If James would stay friends with his ex, and give her a lot of money, then maybe I can have an amicable divorce from Neil Diamond,” Sarah mused.

            “I bet it is possible to have an amicable divorce so long as infidelity isn’t involved,” Margie thought aloud.  She sounded as if she were trying out the idea by voicing it, and was not wholly committed to it. 

            “If my boyfriend ever cheated on me, I’d kick him to the curb.  No second chance for that bastard,” Sarah proclaimed.

            “That’s because you’re young,” Margie said wistfully.  “At my age, I have to take the bastard back every time he cheats.  I’m not hot young stuff anymore.  Replacement men are not banging on my door.  And it’s not like the new guy would be faithful.”

            James was interested at this.  “Really?  You’re at the point where you’d forgive him every time?”
            “Yeah,” Margie admitted.

            “What if he slept with your best friend?” Sarah asked.

            “Oh, that would be hard to forgive,” Margie admitted.

            “Then you could sleep with his best friend,” James offered.

            Sarah seemed to feel a little bad about this exchange and decided to qualify her initial statement that she would end the relationship after infidelity no matter what.  “Well, I guess I’d take my boyfriend back.  But I’d tell him up front that I get to cheat on him in revenge.  In fact, I’d film myself having sex with someone and show it to him.  Or I’d insist that we have an open relationship.”

            “Oh, I’d love to have an open relationship.”  James’s eyes looked dreamy.  “I’ve been trying to get another woman into my marriage for years, but my wife won’t have any of it.  And I’m sure she has bisexual tendencies, so she would enjoy it, too.”

            “Are you always pushing for the same woman?” Sarah asked.

            “No, I switch it up every year or so, but she doesn’t go for any of my suggestions.”       

            “Maybe because she knows you’re joking,” Marge says.

            “But I’m not joking.  And she knows I’m not joking.”

            “So when you said that your wife puts up with a lot of crap, this is the crap you’re talking about?” I asked.

            “This push for a polygamous relationship is just the beginning of the crap I give her,” James said.  “Although I wouldn’t want another wife.  It wouldn’t be polygamous.  What’s the word for a three-person relationship with one marriage?”

            “I think the word is polyamorous,” I said.  But I wasn’t sure.

            Sarah looked thoughtful.  “The people who pull off polyamorous relationships.  And swingers.  I wonder how they pull it off.  How do you get on the same page?  And are they happy?”

            “I don’t know if they are happy in general, but I’ve read about one really happy polyamorous relationship,” I said.  “The dude who created the superhero Wonder Woman, William Moulton Marston.  He was a psychiatrist in the 1930s who was married to another psychologist, who was really ahead of her time, Elizabeth Holloway Marston.  Then they both met a beautiful grad student in psychology, Olive Byrne, and brought her into the relationship.  There were kids involved, but I forgot who the mother was.  After he died, the two women staid friends and raised the kids together.  The relationship was pretty scandalous, so no college psych department would give Marston tenure.  So he made money writing comic books and created Wonder Woman to survive financially. She was supposedly based on the two women combined.”

            “That’s pretty,” said Joey.  “You seem to know a lot about Wonder Woman.”

            “Yes,” I said.  “Yes I do.”

            A silence fell across the salon.

            The Cockapoo barked.

            And my haircut was complete.  It was time to go home.