On a cloudy morning, I walked out of my dorm and embraced the fresh air. It had been the first time I stepped outside after my battle with the devil. Luckily, I won. The gentle breeze whisked through my white and blue polo. The light felt so overwhelming on my dilating eyes that I could hardly adjust. It had been less than a week since the illness, but it seemed like a month.
The season approached with a maple bat’s whiff. Such little time yet I needed to prepare for my opening day. A break without throwing a ball or swinging a bat atrophied my will to get up and about. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. 6-0, Coach stated. I wanted to jump around but I needed to walk. With a Northwestern cap on, I ambled along Sheridan Road and looked through a convalescent shadow, anticipating the moment I could be on the field once more.
First, I needed to look sharp.
So I walked down Sheridan Road and made my way into downtown Evanston. The trees set shade over the cement pathway as I cut through the grassy area and into the city. The buildings lurked over the streetlights where the residents strolled day after day without a care in the world. That’s Evanston, a small but bustling town filled with students at one end and families at the other.
What I hoped for on this beautiful day, however, was a place where I could sit down, close my eyes and listen to the inaudible buzzing creeping near my ears. It would be a place where jokes bounced from wall to wall, laughter ensued and business resumed as usual. No silence. A place where I could listen one man could joke and another teaches.
Where’s the barbershop? I wondered.
Back in Coney Island, a shop sat at every corner. While on break, the fellas sat in lounge chairs and watched as the people embraced the summer. One smoked a cigarette while the other ate a Big Mac from the nearby McDonald’s. Both wore a plain white t-shirt and baggy jeans. A homeless man sat at the base of the storefront next door, shaking a cup. His rugged appearance impressed the crew. One man stood up, walked over to poor man and gave him a dollar. He smirked.
Off in the distance, the cries of children and adults filled the cool air with an aura of restlessness. All walks of life strolled along the boardwalk from the cop, the gangster, the dealer, the homeless, the elderly and especially the tourist. Astroland was closed, but the boardwalk remained alive. The salty aroma sent a euphoric feeling through my body.
As comfortable as the days of summer had been, the guys sat back and relaxed while the customers rested inside in the cool air conditioning, awaiting a cut. Seeing my troubled neighbor from up the street working at the shop sent a smile to my face. A middle-aged man in similar attire wrapped a large sheet over my body, grabbed his clippers and asked me what I wanted.
Dark Caesar, I said.
For the next ten minutes, I could hear the barber ramble on about his apparently beautiful daughter, his fun-loving wife, and his passion for comedy shows.
Suddenly, he asked, “When do you go back to school?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Remember: do what you gotta do out there.”
–
I heard the barber’s voice resonate as I walked through downtown Evanston, searching for a place to have another conversation. It would not cease. The constant chatter echoed with each step I took toward Davis St. I looked past the large green columns that held the train tracks and saw a storefront with red awning and swirly red, white and blue pedestal. To my surprise, there were no men in white t-shirts and baggy jeans. No one smoked a cigarette or had a bite to eat.
The front was empty.
As I approached the front, I peeked into the window like a child afraid of his first haircut. I was young again, hoping my first time in a new shop would not be so bad. I walked into the shop with a book at hand and bitter nostalgia in my pocket. I sat next to two elderly men playing chess. They wore checkered shirts and cargo pants. One had a linenweave cap on; the other drank a cup of coffee. Neither budged as I sat down.
The only sound came from the sole barber, clad in a red top and white pants, clipping another man’s hair with his tiny scissors.
Silence pervaded the small room. There was no chatter, only the droll monotones of men past their prime. Suddenly, the barber finished. Flashes of the forties ran through my mind as he approached me. His slick white hair googled as his steps became smaller and smaller the closer he got.
He reached out his hand and asked, “What do you need?”
“Dark Caesar.”
“What is that?”
I shook my head.
“Just a buzzcut, then,” I said.
–
As I walked back to my dorm, the wind began to pick up. Though I looked sharp, I didn’t feel it. Something as simple as a haircut makes a cloudy day sunny, yet I could not bear the smile of a child. No matter what the discount for students may be, Evanston shops were not shops, just salons and boutiques. Nothing could compel me but the bright Chicago lights, luring me into the shop where the voices of reason came from the comical chatter and buzzing clippers.