| |
The "B" Word - 2 -
Cutter Tom seems to be a great American badass. Complete with the ZZ Top beard, the ink, the wallet on a chain, the snub-nosed shitkicker boots, the Skynyrd shirt, and the buckle. Like Roy, he too is in his mid 50's, but has a younger, sort of sly quality about him.
I'm making Cutter Tom sound sinister. He's really not, but I can tell he's "been in the trenches".
Cutter Tom is friendly, in sort of a disaffected way. Personable, but not.
He also had a rather unique cadence to his speech. I'm not really sure how to explain it, but he would add EMPHASIS and a pause to his speech at odd points during conversation. Not that I go looking for that kind of thing, but with Cutter Tom it was very noticeable. He'd also repeats various words randomly. That was my first clue that he may have been talking to me--at me, but he really wasn't "engaged" in the conversations. His feet may have been in The Place, but his mind wasn't.
It all added to his personality. And he does seem to have a tremendous personality. Like that of a sideshow barker.
When I walked out to the main room of The Place, Roy on my arm (literally), Cutter Tom greeted me warmly.
"HOW. Do you do? My NAME. Is Cutter Tom."
"Hi Cutter Tom. I'm Mark."
"Well HELL-looooo Mr. Mark, SO. Glad to make yer acquaintance. What do you want to have DONE. Today?" He says as he draping the cloth over me.
"Well obviously I need my hair cut, but since you asked, can you turn me into an Oriental Love God? My wife would sure appreciate the change up."
He laughs.
"I'll see what I Can do... What I can do.". He pauses for a second, sizing up my head. Then he starts cutting my hair.
It's going well. We're making the appropriate generic level of small talk. The normal "What do you do for a living? That's interesting. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Any kids? Uh-huh. Right. Yeah. Uh-huh." bullshit banter. I could've told him that I club babies for a living, and hunt the elderly for sport and gotten the same response.
I wasn't necessarily there for the conversation. I just wanted a haircut. I got one too. Believe or not, a good one.
A damn fine one!
"Dang Cutter Tom! You almost brought forth the Love God, thanks man. What do I owe ya?"
We settle up, and I leave. All's well.
The Second Time...
A few weeks later, with my "doo" back in shambles, I call Cutter Tom and this time I actually set an appointment. He asks if I can come by later that afternoon.
We agree on 3:00 clock.
I show up right at three. I walk in a have a seat in the waiting chair (The Place's waiting area is a single chair).
The Place is empty.
Before long I hear, "Be right with ya." from behind the curtained door.
Then Cutter Tom comes out and greets me with a warm, over the top, "MR. MARK! My friend. How are you my fine friend?! How are you?"
"I'm well Cutter Tom. Yourself?"
"Never better! Whata WE. Goin' a do today, Mr. Mark?" He says, as he directs me over to his chair (sans the hair wash). As he's draping the cloth over me a different lady walks out from behind the curtain.
She's in her late thirties to early forties*, wearing jeans, heels, and one of those navel showing shirts. The most noticeable thing she's wearing is a "hungry" vibe for Cutter Tom. She wanted Cutter Tom... Bad! She was practically humping his leg.
As she walked out, she and Cutter Tom continued the their conversation from the backroom. He was cool and matter of fact. She was off-the-chart flirty, and full of innuendo. Cutter Tom politely tried to involve me in their conversation. She ignored his attempt. Ignored me.
I didn't even try to speak up. I felt like a voyeur watching all the action play out in the mirror.
He continued to try and focus on his task at hand, my hair. He also tried to keep up with their conversation, all the while deflecting every verbal bump and grind she was lofting his way. After ten or so minutes, their conversation wound down. I think she got the message that his focus had shifted to his job. She told him she had to leave then she kissed him, open mouth, with tongue, on the cheek. It would've been hot if it wasn't so full of skank.
Cutter Tom, the professional, didn't acknowledge the kiss, but warmly told he wished her well as she left.
He quietly resumes focus on my hair.
I'm quiet. He's in the zone.
The only sound in the shop is coming from his scissors.
Finally I break the quiet, "Um... Cutter Tom, if I was interrupting something... I Uh... I'd a been glad to come back later. All you had to do was say the word. I feel like a cockblock, If you'd have told me I would have left in a heartbeat. Ya'll could've had the rest of the afternoon."
"Can't. It's against the code." He says stoically, never breaking focus.
"Code? What code?"
"She's the ex-old lady of one of my riding compadres. That's just something you don't do. Can't do, even if I wanted to. She knows that too."
"Oh. That kind of thing. Speaking of riding, you been on the road lately?"
And our conversation takes flight. He's no longer quiet Cutter Tom, he's back to his self that I first met. He's talking about his Harley and some of the problems he's been having with it. He tells me about a recent roadtrip to Tampa. Then he tells me about when he was growing up in New Orleans. We talk about our families (he has a daughter RZ's age). We talk about music, sports. We're laughing and cutting up (excuse the pun). The haircut is going way long, but no problem, I'm enjoying the time.
We really are having a great, engaging, conversation.
Then the chat lulls.
"So Cutter Tom, how long have you been a biker?" I ask in the same upbeat, conversational tone we've had all along.
Quiet. Cutter Tom stops the scissor action.
He steps back and looks down at me, scissors in his right hand.
"What DO. YOU. Mean by THAT?" He's pissed for some reason.
"What do you mean? What do I mean?"
He takes another step back, pauses, cocks his head back a little bit so he's really looking down, glaring at me now.
"Just what the FUCK. DO. YOU. MEAN. By that? The 'biker' comment."
"I meant, how long have you been a biker? How long have you been riding? How long have you been *of motorcycle*? Estimated timeframe since you became one with your Harley?
Dude, I'm just trying to make conversation." I'm scrambling trying to figure out what I said that pissed him off, and trying to settle him down. He's livid. Thankfully he's put the scissors down by this time.
"So you don't mean that in a bad way?"
"Oh hell no! Do you really think I'd go and try and hack you off when you're holding a pair of scissors an inch from my eyeball? Dude, we're just talking."
He's calming down. He realizes I didn't mean to offend him and I wasn't being judgemntal.
"It's just that 'biker' term has gotten a BAD. Rap. It makes me mad the way PEOPLE. Think of bikers. I guess for me, its like the 'n' word is for African-Americans. Sorry 'bout gettin' all up on ya like that."
Shrugging it off I say "No sweat man. Besides, if I was going to talk about you, I'd talk about you about you behind your back. Not to your face. You'd kick my ass."
Laughing, he asks, "Kick your ass?! What makes you think I'd kick your ass?"
"'Cause you're a bi... ker."
------
In the effort of self preservation, all names have been changed to protect my ass from receiving a proper beat down.
*spelled it right this time.
Sorry Nita. No pictures.
1/27/2005 09:14:30 PM
|
|
|
