The number 4.

Growing up with a very frugal Mexican father I always dreaded/cherished the few times that I got to spend alone with him. I am the oldest son, and by right, a few quality moments were granted to me every so often. For some reason or another they always somehow taught me the value of a dollar, or rather, how to stretch it out so hard that a booger would come out of George Washington's nose. My father, "The King of Garage Sales" and me the faithful "Prince". I would be dragged all over the place to get a deal, yard sales, auctions, El Swapmeet, and even to estate sales where I wouldn't know until much later that all the buried treasure that my father would acquire to resell at El Swapmeet, came from dead people. My father who would bring his own tortas and tacos into the dollar Tuesday at the fourth run movie theatre The Vogue on 3rd Ave. Everyone else would get a bucket of popcorn and a soda, and we would have tortas de frijole con tosino and a AMPM refillable sports bottle that we would get for only fifty cents. He would take me for an all day extravaganza, sometimes they would show three movies in a row, back to back. There was only one theatre, and two sad arcade games that I would wander to if the movie was ever boring. Once my father, ever the salesman, turned a profit by selling some tacos and a torta to a family from Tijuana who smelled our food and wasn't to proud to eat it like I sometimes pretended to be. But the greatest joy for me was that time once a month when my hair would grow past my ear and my sideburns would reach out like hairy animals from the side of my head. It was my dad's curse to have sons that were destined to be giants compared to him and to have inherited the Indio from my mom's side, and grow hair from our heads like some wild beast. You see, my father went bald at an early age, I never knew my father to have a full head of hair. So to have all his sons have such good, strong hair was something that he was very proud of. My father came from the time of jitterbugs and pompadours, he would subjugate us to 1950's doo wop music that was in either in English or translated into Spanish. He taught me how to comb my hair to look like Elvis, and he secretly called me that because I would curl my lip and shake my legs like him. He taught me about pomades, and how lucky I was that I was born with a widow's peak, because women used to love that about him! So it was a major faux pas when I ran around looking like a surly savage, the minute that happened it was time to head to the barber shop! I loved to hate that place, with the smell of the hair tonics and the powders and mirrors where you could see yourself at every angle and practice your Elvis lip curl. The bad thing about that about that place was that it was in Tijuana and meant that I would leave the safety of my cherished Chula Vista, where the kids my age didn't scare the hell out of me, or try to sell me gum. Just me and my dad, he would load me up into the Chevy and we would drive over to the same barbershop that my dad had been going to for who knows how long. The same four barbers who knew my father by name would always greet us and marvel at how long my hair was and how tall I was getting. This place was filled with faded old pictures of hairstyles long forgotten. There were these headshots of men and boys with sad smiles and shiny hair that customers would point at, and the man with the shears would cut your mop into that same look, with precise practice. My dad had his favorite man to cut his hair and was surprise to know at age six that I had my favorite as well. It wasn't his guy that laughed at all my dad's jokes, and wore the tight smock that barely held in his beer gut. No, my guy had the penultimate chair, towards the right. I chose him because he had salt and pepper hair that was very trim and neat, and he had many gold rings on both hands that made him look like a wizard when he cut people's hair. He also had the most pictures around his mirror. But the main reason that I chose this guy was for the chair alone, it reflected the sun off car's windshield when they made a left turn onto the street, so the sun beams would illuminate my face and make me look like I was onstage like Elvis. It was my own ghetto spotlight, and I felt like a star. I always got the same haircut, the number four. On the chart there was this picture of this kid that I thought looked like me, so I figured that I had to have too. My secret wish was that one day they would notice that I looked better in that haircut and put my picture up, and then all the little boys would be asking for the number four, which was my lucky number. That's why I needed the extra light, even at a young age I knew that I looked better in natural lighting.
The man, who's name escapes me now, knew my head. He said that all the cowlicks on my scalp were like a map that guided him on how to cut my hair so it would lay right. I always had many questions for him and he always answered, and vice versa. He would ask me about school, my family members and how many girlfriends I had. I would try to answer as best as possible and would sometimes get a laugh from all the men in the shop when I would be answer a question as honestly as possible.
"Tienes novia?" He would ask with his gold tooth and his rings playing in my hair like a goldminer in a stream.
"No." I would answer in voice a little to high for a boy.
"Y por que no?" Why not!? I would think, I would hate this question that would always come up and I never knew how to answer him.
"Por que no me gustan." There, I said it, I didn't like girls. I came out to the world without knowing it at age seven. I told all the men in that barbershop that I didn't like girls, not because I was gay, but because girls were my friends and I liked them okay, I just didn't want a girlfriend.
"Don't worry, with the cut that I give you, all the girls are gonna fall in love with you!" Immense laughter would fill the shop and I didn't realize that he had misunderstood my Spanish and heard that "Girls don't like ME." So he would continue my number four and I would always wait to hear his compliment on how still and well I acted in the chair. I always sat straight, even with that stupid booster seat that meant I was child, I sat and held my head just so, to anticipate his every move. He would barely have to touch my head and I knew to lower my chin, or how far to tilt my head to one side. I was sure that this man would use me as an example to other little boys when pointing to my picture on the wall and tell them that I was never told to sit still or to stop crying. And the end was always the test of my powers, as he would sharpen an old straight razor with this leather belt that hung from the wall, it was a slow show of his artistry when he would drag it across back and forth. I would up the ante with my special ability that I knew that no other boy my age possessed in that country or mine. I was addicted to the television show That's Incredible!, a show about humans and there amazing feats. I had once watched an episode where this guy held the record for being able to hold still without blinking for hours! He would just stand in one place and people would think that he was a statue or something and then when they least expected it, ZAZZ! He would jump out and scare the caca out of them. So I would start my statue mutant power where I wouldn't move, I would barely breathe while he ran that razor around the nape of my neck and shaped me up. I would only stare into the mirror and concentrate on his golden fingers, playing a mental game that only he and I knew existed. It was a power struggle, I was He-Man and he was Skeletor. I would win straight out if it wasn't for that damn reflection from the sun, why didn't I ever remember about that? I would force my eyes open when that beam would come across, no sign of weakness, ever! It would quickly end, and the alcohol and the powder with the brush would come across my neck and shoulders. I would be brushed off of stray hairs with another brush, and massaged with a machine that would fit over his fingers that he would rub on my back and make my teeth chatter. I never knew how much those cuts cost, but they were priceless to me. They became less private with the birth of every brother, and they didn't have my demeanor when it came to getting my hair did. As I got older I outgrew the number four, and was surprised when my barber told me he didn't know how to cut my hair like Richard Grieco, even when I brought a picture from my own Tigerbeat. He was afraid that he wouldn't get it right, and advised me that maybe it was time for me to go to a salon. I knew that he was looking at my long bangs and ripped up jeans, and was upset when I asked for mousse instead of his favorite pomade, Three Flowers. I was 12 when I outgrew the number four, and my father started letting my cousin Maricela, who was going to beauty school in Tijuana, cut my hair. I miss those simple days, with my dad. So last night I asked my Roommate to finally cut my shaggy hair. I wanted a short boy cut, and when I explained what I wanted he gave me an updated version of the number four. He did a great job, my dad would approve. DF.

*For Lencho, hope you like it...