Phobias are like kryptonite. They take away your powers—powers of judgment, rational behavior, perception, bladder control…. Carlos at the Barbershop had refused to cut my hair by the time I was eight. The screaming was getting worse as I got older, not better as they had hoped. My mother was trying to cut my hair in the kitchen of our tiny apartment.
“See Hector, they don’t hurt at all. Just tickle. See baby?” She would say, gently touching my arm with the clippers.
“Yeah Momma, it tickles.” I forced a smile.
No matter how promising the haircut seemed initially, it always ended in a wrestling match- my mother and me on the linoleum floor. The sweat and tears and snot formed a paste for all of the loose hairs that were flying through the air. My face was covered with the damn things-- little hairs that felt like they were burrowing into my skin. Once, in the struggle, I gave my mother a bloody lip. That was the last haircut that she would give me. She decided at that point that it would be the responsibility of my three teenage brothers to cut my hair. Angel was 15, Robert 16, and Juan 18.
Robert shoplifted a bottle of Benadryl after school on a Friday. After my mother left for work that night, he poured a double-dose into my Kool-aid at dinner. I fell asleep on the couch immediately after getting up from the table and did not wake up until noon on Saturday. I noticed the breeze from the ceiling fan before I opened my eyes. My brothers had shaved my head. This went on for several months. Every fourth Friday, I would have macaroni and Kool-Aid with my brothers and wake up the next day, bald.
This unspoken arrangement worked well for my brothers and me. As long as I did not have to get a haircut, I did not question their methods. One Friday afternoon, Robert was chased out of the Rite-Aid by the clerk before he managed to steal the Benadryl. The bottle at home did not have enough to give me the usual double-dose but Robert gave me what he had left. I fell asleep right after dinner and my brothers assumed it had been enough.
Angel had shaved the first patch out of my thick black hair when I woke up. I heard myself screaming before I was fully aware of what was happening. Hearing the screaming, Robert and Juan ran in to help Angel. I opened my eyes to see Angel wielding the clippers while Robert and Juan held me down. Somehow I managed to free myself from them and scrambled to the corner behind the television set. I felt the bald spot next to my left ear and refused to come out until my mother came back from work.
She was horrified when she learned how my brothers had been able to cut my hair. Her anger was obvious even if most of her raving was in Spanish. She managed to get the point across.
“This is crazy. No more, do you understand me son?”
I stared straight ahead fingering the spot where my hair should have been.
“Hector! I mean it. Tomorrow morning we are going to see Carlos and you are going to get your haircut. No fighting. No crying. Are we clear?” She turned and left the room without waiting for an answer.
My mother had never heard of tonsurphobia, but I don’t think it would have mattered if she had. That fact that people actually have a phobia of haircuts would not have carried much weight with her. She intended for me to get a haircut in the morning whether my fear was legitimate or not.
I am not sure how long I lay awake that night. Every time I closed my eyes I felt sure that Robert, Angel, and Juan were all standing over me with scissors, razors, and clippers—instruments of torture. I heard my mother got to bed and then each one of my brothers crept out of our room at ten-minute intervals. How long had they been leaving like that? Where were they going? And, of course, could I go to? I jumped out of bed and got dressed. I dug the 4 silver dollars out of my sock drawer that my father had sent me for my Birthday and shoved them into my pocket. I did not pack a bag. I did not plan to stay gone. I did not plan to return and get my haircut. I had no plans at all, just the urge to run—to flee from the safest place that I would ever know.
I was surprised by how easy it was. I ran down the four flights of stairs, expecting someone to stop me. No one did. As I pushed through the doors to the outside, I felt the cold night air hit my bald spot. I self-consciously held my left hand over my head. Pondering which direction to take, I realized that there was no one to tell me where to go. It was exhilarating. I chose left, for no particular reason.
I had walked four blocks, with my hand over my bald spot, when I saw her.
“Hector, baby is that you?”
I stopped and let my hand fall to my side, it was beginning to ache. The voice was both familiar and strange. I should have recognized it, that much was clear, but I just could not place it.
“Hello Hector,” she snapped in front of my face. Her shoes were hot pink and too small. They made her stance awkward. The cream-colored lacy tights revealed muscular calves. The dress was very tight and looked like it was made out of a shiny pink plastic. The long black hair seemed to be a little off-center. She knelt in front of me and I could smell my mother’s perfume.
“Juan?” Even as I said it, I could not believe it. I reached out and touched his wig.
He leaned in close. “At night its ‘Juanita’ baby. ‘Juanita,’” he repeated.
I stood there staring at the dress, the shoes, the wig, the false eyelashes and dark red lipstick. This was my oldest brother. But it was a woman. It did not make any sense. ‘Juanita’ took a red scarf from her neck and tied it around my head, covering the bald spot.
“There you go baby. We need to get you home,” Juan reached out for my arm, but I pulled back.
“What are you? Why do you look like a lady? Why are you calling me ‘baby’? You sound like Momma” I could have asked countless more questions but something told me that I did not want to know the answers. I turned and ran, ran from Juan, ran from Juanita.
I ran for two more blocks, reciting the multiplication tables. I was trying to keep my mind busy so that the image of Juan dressed like a woman did not creep back. I heard the silver dollars jingling in my pocket and realized that I was very hungry. There was a store on the corner that I had been to with my mother. I stopped running and waited for my breathing to return to normal, not wanting to attract too much attention with my panting.
The bell above the door rang as I entered and the girl behind the counter frowned when she saw me. Her mouth opened but I ducked down an aisle before she could ask me anything. I picked up a box of cherry Pop-tarts and a yellow Gatorade. I was enjoying my new freedom. The girl was still behind the counter and I was thinking of lies to answer any questions she might ask. My mother was sick and needed something for breakfast tomorrow seemed to be the most believable. As I walked to the counter, rehearsing what I would say, I heard a very familiar laugh from one of the stock boys in the back. Angel. I froze, unsure of what to do.
“Hector?” Angel called.
I turned to face him slowly, thinking please don’t be dressed like a woman, please don’t be dressed like a woman.
“What in the Hell are you doing out? It is almost midnight. Is Momma okay?”
Afraid to speak, I stared at his shoes.
“Answer me Hector. What’s going on?”
I lifted my eyes and was grateful to see that, while he was wearing a long green apron like the rest of the stock boys, he was definitely dressed like a boy. I burst into tears and threw my arms around his legs.
“Oh Angel…I….Juanita…I don’t…” I could not get many coherent words through the sobs.
Angel looked at the girl behind the counter. “I am going to take a break Maria. Will you cover for me?”
Maria nodded, still frowning. Angel and I went outside and sat on a bench in front of the store. The bench swayed with our weight and Angel and I were silent for a moment wondering if it would be able to hold us. I stopped crying and wiped my nose on my sleeve.
“So you, uh, met Juanita?” Angel put his hand on my back.
“You mean Juan in lady clothes? Yeah, I met it,” I answered.
“Juan is not an ‘it’ he is still your brother.”
“Why does he do it?”
“We never really talk about it. I don’t think he would be able to explain it anyway. He did not want you to find out and he is terrified that Momma will know, so you have to shut up about it okay? It would kill her, or she would kill Juan, or both. I just know it can’t be good if she knows, alright?” Angel glanced down at his watch.
“I have to go back in soon. Can you make it back home by yourself?” He asked.
“I made it here didn’t I?” I feigned courage, but really wanted him to walk me home.
“Yeah, I guess so. How did you know that I worked here anyway?” Angel stood up.
“You guys don’t think that I know anything.” Unwilling to give up my new tough guy act, I stood up and spit like I had seen my brothers do to express their disgust.
“Okay, don’t tell Momma though. She would worry,” Angel patted my head and turned to go back into work. “Go home Hector, be careful” he called over his shoulder. I heard the bell ring as the door closed behind him.
Alone again, I considered my options. I had forgotten to buy the Pop-tarts and Gatorade. Hunger, fear, and exhaustion were all competing for my attention. The possibility of a haircut was not a concern at this point. Defeated, shoulders slumped, I started the walk home. I stared at the sidewalk and avoided eye contact with anyone on the street. The walk was peaceful and I felt very grown-up. As I crossed the street to my own block, I wondered what had happened to Juan, deciding he must have gone back home.
“Hector! What’s up little man?” It was Robert, my other brother, of course.
Robert appeared in the alley between our apartment building and Carlos’ Barber Shop. He was leaning against the brick wall, holding a cigarette. His friend George was with him, also smoking. Behind them, further in the alley, was another group of boys. I did not know their names, but they were the “bad boys” that my mother was always worried about. If I was playing outside when they came around the building, my mother would lean out the window of our apartment and call me inside. They smoked and cursed. They would say stuff to my mother in Spanish that made her jaw set and her cheeks redden, but they would howl with laughter. And Robert and George were with these “bad boys.” They were wearing the blue bandanas on their heads just like the others.
A bottle broke in the alley behind Robert, he jumped, but did not turn to look. His eyes were fixed on me, on my head.
“What the hell is that?” Robert asked, pointing to the red scarf on my head.
Some of the other boys were starting to gather behind Robert and George.
“What?” I touched my head. “Oh, Juan gave it to me,” I said.
“You mean Juanita? You hanging around with that freak show? Take that shit off,” Robert spit on the sidewalk.
“I can’t,” I put my hand over my head. Robert’s friends did not seem like they would be too understanding about my bald spot.
One of the other boys turned and yelled something in Spanish to some other boys in the alley. This was one of the many times that I wished my mother had taught me to speak Spanish. My brother dropped his cigarette and stepped towards me.
“Take it off Hector, no kidding,” his voice had lost all of its previous bravado. Robert was afraid of these boys too.
“No way, you want them all to make fun of me,” I dodged him.
Behind Robert, we heard someone in the alley yelling. More shouts “Get the kid” “Robert’s brother” and other stuff in Spanish. That was all that I needed to hear. I turned to run, but someone grabbed my shirt.
“Wait a minute, we just want to talk,” this man was older than the others, maybe in his twenties. He knelt down and talked to me nose to nose. His breath smelled like cigarettes.
“What you doing here?” he asked.
“Talking to my brother,” I answered.
“Robert?”
I nodded.
“Who gave you that red bandana?”
“My brother,” I did not say Juan or Juanita, because I did not know which one to say. It was all so confusing, I just wanted to go home.
He stood up and turned around, saying something in Spanish to the other boys.
George screamed “Huye Robert! Huye ahora!” My brother looked at me, confused.
The man took three steps towards Robert and embraced him. Robert moaned. It was not until the man stepped back and Robert fell to his knees that I noticed the blood quickly spreading across his gray t-shirt. The man stuck the knife into his back pocket and ran back into the alley, followed by the other boys. Only George remained.
“I am so sorry, I tried to warn you Robert” George was on his knees next to Robert. He stood and looked at me.
“Get out of here Hector,” he said, his voice cracking. “Go back to bed. I’ll take care of this.”
Robert’s eyes had closed and his breathing was becoming shallower.
“Call an ambulance. Call the police. Do you have a phone?” I fell to my knees and pulled up Robert’s shirt. The wound, no more than 3 inches long, was pouring out blood. I crawled away and vomited. Robert made a rattling noise and the breathing stopped all together. George ran back into the alley to join the others. I lay down next to my brother and began to cry.
I am not sure how much time passed, but Angel found us on his way home from work that night. I had fallen asleep, or maybe passed out. He ran up and got our mother, but Robert was long gone by then. I spent the next three days in bed. At some point, Angel finished shaving my head, but I don’t know when. That was the last haircut I would ever need. My hair never grew back. My mother took me to several different doctors, but no one could explain it.
Juan never came home after I saw him on the street. Angel and I decided that he was probably afraid that I told our mother about “Juanita.” Angel kept his job as a stock boy until he graduated early and went off to college. He is a lawyer now. I had joined up with some “bad boys” of my own before I made it to Middle School. I was approached by the group that wore red and they convinced me that it was my duty to avenge Robert’s death. I killed four of the others in one week, one of them was George. I was only 15 at the time, but they tried me as an adult. I will probably be in here for the rest of my life, but Angel is fighting for me. He always will, I guess. We don’t talk about what happened that night anymore. He must want to know why I couldn’t just get the damn haircut, but he never asks.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.
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