We had just moved to a new neighborhood, and I’d only had one haircut since the pandemic, so I was excited that there was a place right around the corner. In late June, right before my parents visited, I made an appointment, and it was scheduled the morning before their flight from Florida landed at LAX. It was my Dad’s birthday and Father’s Day weekend.
The place is called [REDACTED]. It’s kind of an old lady salon, with lots of garish wallpaper and goofy pineapple paintings for sale. The man who cut my hair was named [REDACTED]. He was probably 60, possibly 70, and he had poofy, blown-dry gray-black hair like a faded doo-wop star. He wore flowy clothing, a floral-patterned shirt, and sandals, the kind of outfit people his age would wear on cruises to Caribbean islands. When he walked behind me to settle me into the chair, I couldn’t help but hear steel drums. He had a faint accent, and he said his mother was Spanish. He was pleasant—nice, even. Everything was normal and fine until it was not.
When he leaned in to cut my hair, his crotch rubbed up against my knee and then across my thigh. Then it happened again, on my other leg. It made me uncomfortable but I said nothing because I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. I pulled my knees up and moved around in my chair. Then it happened again.
He kept the conversation brisk and friendly the whole time, acting oblivious to what he was doing. He asked about my family, how long we’d lived in our new house, how old my kids were, and what kind of dog we had. I answered every question loudly and authoritatively because I was frozen in that chair—trapped, ashamed, whatever—and I had no authority.
He spun me around, and I straightened my legs. Then I slumped to keep it from happening again. “Could you pull up for me a bit?” he asked. “Sure, sure,” I said. “Sorry.” I didn’t want to offend him.
And once I pulled up there, it was again — his crotch, higher this time. “Lemme get your eyebrows,” he said. He was basically straddling me now. Two old ladies were in the next room getting their hair dried, but they could not see what was happening to me. No one could see what was happening to me. Maybe this was just how he cut people’s hair?
I lost track of the number of times he rubbed his dick on my leg, but it was definitely close to 20. After around 15, I just let it happen.
The haircut ended, and he spun me around again so I could look in the mirror at myself. “It looks great!” What else was I supposed to say?
He tried to get me to sit so he could brush the hair off, but I got up and quickly undid the smock. I had my credit card out and ready to swipe before he even made it to the front desk area, but he waved me away. “Oh, I should have told you—I accept cash only. Come back tomorrow with a check or cash, or however you’d like to pay,” he said. He made a big show of it like he was giving me special treatment. “I trust you! Come back tomorrow!” Then I panicked. “I can pay now.”
I fast-walked the .31 miles to the nearest ATM, took out $100, and then jogged back. I went in, and he was not at the counter; he was back in that horrible chair, swiping his phone like it was a normal workday. I handed him $80. “Thanks, buddy!” I said. I don’t know why I called him “buddy,” but —
No, actually, I do.
*****
I worked at a South Philly deli when I was 17, and the guy who cut the lunch meat—this puny little guy named Danny—would greet all the customers like this: “What can I get ya, buddy?” Then he’d slice out a pound of salami or provolone and wrap it up in that heavy meat-wrapping paper. Then he’d rip and slap on some masking tape and write “Prov” on it with a Sharpie.
He’d hand it back over the counter without even looking at the customer, smooth as can be. They’d thank him, and he’d say, “No problem, buddy!” and he’d already be on to the next customer. “What do ya need, buddy?” or if it was a woman, he’d say, “What can I get for ya, hun?”
It was Honey and Buddy all day between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. As I said, he was small, almost runty, but behind the counter, in his oversized filthy white apron, with that meat slicer whirring, he was in total control, an absolute giant: He had authority.
That was the energy I wanted to put out there. But in that chair, I felt 9, the age I was when I was sexually abused by a child psychologist, a man who hypnotized me and then touched me and took something away from me. You know the drill.
But wait—that’s what I think happened. That moment is lost to time, to fear, to shame, to my imagination even. My current therapist believes it happened. My last therapist, too. Other people with similar bad-touch histories believe me, too, but maybe they’re being polite.
But when I was frozen in that chair, I couldn’t push that doo-wop shitbag hairdresser off my knee, and I couldn’t get up to leave, and I couldn’t react in a way that demonstrated I was protective of my space and had AUTHORITY over my body, I did not do any of those things because I don’t have those responses in me. And that’s when I knew it was real.
*****
At an AA meeting a few months ago, a man we’ll call Mitchell qualified and told an awful story about his own sexual abuse history during the What It Was Like portion of the share. He mentioned that he was sexually abused several times when he was a teenager, but he didn’t recognize it was abuse until he got sober almost thirty years later and with the help of a therapist.
He told his story with such admirable composure. It was like he was relieved that he finally had some answers for why he was the way he was. “I didn’t know what boundaries were.” He’d just let people do things to him he didn’t want them to do over and over again. He thought that was normal! So he people-pleased. He drank. He had weird sex issues. Same-same.
I knew exactly what he meant and realized I had no boundaries. Truly: What are boundaries! It was a disgusting but welcome discovery. I had no boundaries, and I didn’t respect other people’s boundaries, and that tore me up. If you asked me to point out the boundaries on a map, I would point to the ocean. But where the ocean ended, where it fell off the earth, man, I don’t know. Everything else between the landmasses is meaningless—there were only imaginary lines.
Four days after what happened in the salon, I called Mitchell up to talk about it. I told him that it was almost a week later, and I was still getting bombarded with thoughts—the frozenness of my body, the revenge plots against the hairdresser, failed opportunities to connect deeply with other humans, and guilt over my absence of boundaries. He understood. He also gave very specific instructions. “Don’t get your haircut there again,” he said. Sounds obvious, but it was not. I needed to hear that. Because if he hadn’t told me that, I probably would have gone back. I would have gone back as a way to trick myself into believing that nothing bad had ever happened to me there.
I called Mitchell yesterday to update him on my progress. He told me to remember something very important: “You have every right to say something when you feel uncomfortable.”
*****
I called my old therapist about a week after the incident, the therapist I abandoned when I moved away from NYC five years ago, to get some insight about who he saw sitting across from him all those years. First, I apologized for my dishonesty with him. What was I dishonest about? Drinking. Drugs. All of it. He would ask me how much I drank, and I’d say a number, but it was usually quadruple that amount. “That’s okay,” he said. “No apology necessary.”
I told him about what happened during my haircut. Did he think I had boundary issues? “You had a drinking problem. I’m sorry I didn’t recommend you get help for that sooner.” We talked for more than an hour. I asked him if he still had Zelle because I also remembered I had bounced a few checks on him. “A.J.! There is no charge. I’m happy to hear you’re doing so well – but I’m also so sorry that happened to you.” Then he suggested I do some more EMDR. He was always such a kind man. I said we’d keep in touch.
*****
I didn’t want to write about this but knew I needed to because this is what writing about this does — it casts a line out into the world into that big ocean. Even if that line catches seaweed or plastic bags or fish bones, any sort of connection helps. I need a connection. I want to know if it was a dream and possibly someone else had the same dream. Even if it was just a dream, I want to know. Tell me it was a dream, and I’ll shut up about it and accept that it never happened. I want someone who has access to all those secret hearts, someone to grab me by the forearm, look me in both eyes and tell me what to do or how to act. I want someone to shake me until my head falls off and rolls into a sewer.
****
After I paid the hairdresser my $80, I fast-walked home and it felt like there were worms in my stomach. I went out back to the office and laid down on the floor. My phone buzzed. I could tell by the noise that it was him. “Hi, Thank you so much. Great meeting [sic]. I hope your wife approves of your haircut.” He also called me twice in the next 30 minutes. I turned my phone face down. I wanted him to think I was dead.
Another text, this time from my mom. They had landed, and they were on their way, waiting for an Uber. The emotional turbulence of their arrival had now shifted over to this fucker.
Before they got there, I scoured the Yelp page for the salon to look for some evidence, maybe a scathing one-star review about the place, maybe something like “The hairdresser rubbed his dick against my leg!” No dice. Then I went to the salon’s website to see if there was an About Us page, even though I don’t know how that would help me. I think I wanted to make sure he wasn’t just another phantom. There wasn’t any trace of him anywhere on the site. But there was this: “All Major Credit Cards Accepted.” The worms woke up. I almost puked.
****
I was so anxious the week before my parents arrived, but this time, I was happy to see them. When their Uber pulled up, I saw how much dementia had shrunk my father, so much so that he needed a walker now. I helped him get out of the car. I carried their heavy suitcases up the front stairs. After my mom hugged me, she complimented my haircut. So did my Dad. “You look like a million bucks!”
Thank you, I said. Thanks a lot.
ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN
You write so eloquently. I cannot bring myself to press the heart button. The subject just makes me want to weep.
My heart feels this. I'm sorry this happened to you. Thanks for sharing it. In program I've learned to carve out boundaries for myself where there were none. It's like drawing a new internal map. I've had the worms feeling inside when I can't move or think. But now I have support and a new way to navigate the world.