5.

Marty was doing most of the shit-cleaning jobs at the old folks home, which was the only thing either of them had going--neither was getting unemployment--besides food stamps. This was why when Alex’s hair began to grow longer and longer he had to ask Marty for the money for a haircut. Marty had cut his own hair for years, with a pair of clippers; he considered barbers a waste and told Alex to cut it himself. There was a dry spell hitting Denver as far as pot was concerned, and they had seen the price of a quarter bag go from 35 bucks to 45 in just two months. Because of this it looked like they were going to be at least another 20 bucks short of the rent when the first came in another week, so it was obviously out of the question that Marty should lend Alex the money.

Alex dealt with his greasy locks for a while. He’d had long hair in high school but that went out of style even for stoners by 1990. Now his hair grew curly and--he hated the word--luxurious. Something about when he’d let that tranny suck his dick made him self-conscious of appearing gay, and now he had perfectly feminine long curls and waves of hair--luxurious. He didn’t want to look luxurious, exuberant, resplendent or any such thing. It made him feel like people stared at him on the street or in the store--it made him feel like people looked to him in offense at a gayness that wasn’t real, even made jokes about his nonexistent gayness--“There he goes, look at the fairy!” they thought, according to his fears. Just as a one thinks more of what one tries to avoid thinking, he was so mentally focused on gayness in his efforts not to appear gay that he found himself sighing loudly, throwing limp wrists around, every gay mannerism short of snapping his fingers back and forth across his face. Needless to say he was desperate for a nice short haircut.

He didn’t realize Marty had been speaking of the clippers when he’d told Alex to cut his own hair. Alex had planned on doing enough of the shit-cleaning work to get the cash for a haircut, since he wasn’t confident he could cut it nicely with the scissors. But it seemed there was a hole in his pocket; every one or two hours he got in, the money was gone almost immediately.

Which was why finally he cut his hair with those scissors. He figured if he just pinched the hair in the thickness of two fingers, he could make it even all around. He cut it short--very short--but it wasn’t in the least even. It looked like he’d been attacked by a rabid raccoon when he was done--short tufts of hair sticking out all around his head, some small locks going out a little longer, uneven in the back and sides, nearly clipped to the skin in random places.

He walked out of his room when he was done, a wide smile on his face. “Look!” he said. He really liked it.

“That looks--that looks fucking psychotic,” said Marty. “I’ll try to fix it with the clippers, but I don’t know if I can--“

“It’s great!” said Alex.

“Have you seen it? Great?”

“I love it,” said Alex. “Don’t change it--it’s great.”

“It looks . . . bizarre, man. Crazy,” said Marty.

What Alex liked about it was that it was about as far from gay as you can get. If you imagined the gayest haircut there ever was, this was its complete antithesis. Marty tried again and again to let him see if he could fix it with the clippers, but finally Alex felt free of his gay-self-consciousness, and was overjoyed. He looked crazy, schizophrenic even; but that would just keep motherfuckers from messing with him on the street.

Marty was afraid the orderly at the old folks home would fire Alex or them both when he saw Alex’s haircut, so he got Alex to wear a baseball cap when he went to clean shit. But soon Alex began to forget putting on the cap before leaving, and the orderly didn’t mention his hair. Soon Alex quit wearing the hat altogether and no one said a word to him about it. It wasn’t the fucking Brown Palace after all.