The French, The Woman, The Haircut, and The Damn Chicago Wind- 1

Matt Myers The French, The Woman, The Haircut, and The Damn Chicago Wind

Word Count: 3,222 The French, The Woman, The Haircut, and The Damn Chicago Wind

Bonjour, Bernard! Wake up, Bernard, I can hear Aymeric yelling outside my second story apartment window. I clearly forgot to set my alarm for work last night, which is characteristic of me. Opening my window, I signal down to Aymeric letting him know Im on my way. Getting ready for work in the morning is a swift process for me. Actually, what I call morning is more afternoon-ish than anything. Truly perfecting the art of rolling out of bed, and in a calming zombie sleep-state scramble, I throw some unwashed jeans on and thrust my semi-long hair into submission. Im always sure to shower the night before because it allows the hair to accumulate, what I like to call, sleep grease throughout the course of the night. There is something about sleeping that lets the scalp know to start pumping grease into the hair; similar to a heroin addict main-lining narcotics. Too much can be a tragic disgrace to ones appearance, but just the right amount makes me feel good about myself. I can feel my hair getting a bit long, but the whole idea of getting a haircut bums me out. I have never had an exceptional haircut. Some have been better than others, but no one has ever been able to captivate my tastes. I suppose captivation should be left to finer things in life, not to haircuts. Aymeric De La Bourdonnaye (a mouthful of a name) and I work at a local recording studio smack in the middle of Chicago. The city has been overwhelming considering I lived a sheltered life, only a year ago, under my parents roof in an Ohio suburb, until I became excessively ashamed of my safe cocooned life. Although, Chicago is an overwhelming place for a newcomer like myself, I quickly got used to its free and aggressive charm. Aymeric, on the other hand, hails from Paris, so he is already acclimated to city life. He is a tall, slim, pale, Frenchman with dopey

The French, the Woman, the Haircut, and the Damn Chicago wind

features. The nose on this guy is incredible; similar the beak on an Australian pelican. He speaks in a soft calming manor that always makes me feel like he has all the time in the world. I rarely go more than twenty-four hours without consulting him about something. We are alike in a plethora of ways, but have our slight differences that we colossally disagree on. Of course, the differences are of no importance, and are merely trivial thoughts. Considering the fact that we are both musicians, we obviously think we are a lot cooler than we actually are. I prefer plaid shirts, one or two pair of jeans that fit a bit tighter than most (nut huggers is the street term), and whatever unique accessories I can find at thrift stores. Aymeric sticks to wearing worn T-shirts imbedded with vintage logos, extravagant jeans with slashes in them, and religiously puts a bandana on his head. Winter is quickly on its way in Chicago. I am greeted with bitter gust of wind as I try not to let my apartment building door hit me in the ass on the way out. Aymeric is hunching himself against a street light smoking an organic cigarette with his usual goofy grin directed at me. He randomly asks, What is the only rule for Somalian hide and seek? I dont know No more than fifteen behind one tree, He answers. His grin suddenly turns into a full on erection of a smile. I laugh fairly hard, but I think Im laughing at the fact that nobody should be joking on a starving group of people. Sometimes, Aymerics heartless antics turn people off, but for me its refreshing. The shamelessness keeps me sane I suppose. So, what is the jive for work today, He asks (always trying to incorporate hip English words into his vocabulary) The usual singer/songwriter bit I assume.

The French, the Woman, the Haircut, and the Damn Chicago wind Easy-peasy he says. Our job consists of playing a guitar, bass, drums, or whatever a

customer needs. We play every kind of music that one can think of: polka, jazz, jazz-fusion, blues, folk, R&B, Motown, and even Pagan music (For the Pagan job, I just sang a note into a long PBC pipe. Unfortunately, the pipe made an obtrusive sound that forced the song to take a frightening turn). Walking 31st street to work, depending on the weather, is the best part of my day. No trees, no grass, no sparse landscaping, just a bunch of movement and sounds packed into the manmade view in front of my perspective. Its a feeling of total freedom in every sense. I say whatever I want to Aymeric, or I say nothing at all because silences become acceptable when you know someone too well. Sometimes, I even smoke a cigarette. I love my work, so when we do arrive at the studio there is no feeling of having to work today. Mauve bricks surround the studio door, and on the door is a piece of paper. Teddy, the engineer always leaves a note front revealing the days recording artist. Her name reads Kathleen Elizabeth Robertson. She almost has three first namesif she could just drop the son on Robertson it would complete the trifectatrifecta makes me think of betting on horsesI always box trifectas because Im not a very confident bettor. Anyways, I have not seen or heard Kathleen before, so Im not sure what to expect. Aymeric and I briskly walk into dim lit foyer (because musicians must have mood lighting god goddamnit) and notice her sitting in the waiting room. She is facing us, but the news paper shes reading wont reveal her face. Five euros says shes smokin fine, I whisper to Aymeric. Friendly wagers are a part of our natural existence.

The French, the Woman, the Haircut, and the Damn Chicago wind Ill take that bet, He says back with a nod of affirmation. And with perfect timing,

Teddy, the boss man, walks out of his chicken coop office to introduce everyone. Kathleen, I would like you to meet Bernard and Aymeric, says Teddy, as the fat beneath his chin does a wiggly dance. Hello boys, she says, while slowly lowering the paper from her face as if she is truly enthralled by the article she was reading. Now, supermodels are often referred to as being perfect, but it is the imperfections that make a woman beautiful. Kathleen had the figure of a supermodel, but also had the slight imperfections that put her in a class above the supermodel. For example, she has an extraordinary widows peak that is accentuated by a cowlick, which makes for an interesting look of her own. The widows peak is surrounded by long curls that poof and pop out wherever they please. She seems promiscuous, which makes me feel like an inexperienced young lad.. Kathleen is so beautiful it inflicts physical pain on me. I am, without a doubt, five euros richer. Hello, I say. Hello, says Aymeric. Oh! I love your accent, Aymeric. You must be from France, she says. Before I know it they are in a fully engaging conversation. The French bastard has some kind of charm only attained from being foreign. He is a die-hard romantic and a great friend, so I thought it would be best to go off and take a leak in order to give him some room. We have always been above average wingmen for each other, and play the field pretty selflessly, but this situation was no exception. I want be the one Kathleen engages for Christ sakes. Maybe, she just has a fetish for the Frenchmaybe, shes on a vicious rebound and saw an easier opening to talk to Aymericmaybe, my hair is a bit too

The French, the Woman, the Haircut, and the Damn Chicago wind

long, which is why she never took an interest in memaybe, shes a horrible person and its for the best she isnt interested in me. Finally, the unfulfilling introductions pass and we make our way to the studio booths. I listen to Kathleens songs a few times so I can chart out the progressions. Surprisingly, she writes very well. I say surprisingly because I had her pegged as a top 40 songwriter with an airy voice and drastic, non-flowing, un-tasteful chord progressions. Aymeric and I decide to go ahead and try a take with no real plan in mind. Teddy kicks off the tract and we conjure up some quick, on the spot, ideas. I could feel Aymerics beat purposely slipping and bouncing to the click-track to give it a loose feel (like that of The Band or The Rolling Stones). I immediately switched to Keith Richards mode to accommodate his decision. Neither of use playing too busily, we keep it at a minimalist level so the song can breath. When the final measure is historically documented (recorded that is) I patiently wait for my final notes to ring out so Teddy can stop the track. When the buzzing in my headphones dissipates I hear Aymeric say, Thats a wrap. What do you mean thats a wrap. It was a perfect take, man. He says. Teddy and Kathleen nod. I have never in my life been a part of a perfect take. Everyone is so damn precise in this business that I didnt think it was possible. It turns out that the take is not perfect, but perfection is a subjective concept so who the hell really knows. It was perfect for her. Throughout the day Aymeric and I continue this nonchalant approach of recording. Occasionally, I see him and Kathleen shoot each other seductive looks, and my heart sinks every time. I prefer to be the one engaging in reproductive activities with her, but the alpha ape (Aymeric) claims territorial dominance before I me. I am simply caught in

The French, the Woman, the Haircut, and the Damn Chicago wind

the crossfire of their flirting war. Instead of being in the trenches taking frag grenades I am in the trenches taking sexual frustration grenades from these two. As the session comes to a close I feel my second wind coming on thinking about Aymeric and I having our daily celebratory drinks at Ginos. Drinking is a rather habitual part of our lives, and is something we look forward too at the end of long days. It doesnt get in the way of performing important tasks seeing as how weve had lots of practice, and we are good about keeping it at a fairly moderate level. I had my first drink when I was twelve years old, and my father always said I had a taste for the stuff. Scotch is my weapon of choice. Aymeric likes bourbon, even though he cant annunciate it properly. It sounds like boo-re-bone when he says it. Right when the thought concerning our daily drink processes in my head I feel a little bubble of happiness growing in my body, it is suppressed by Kathleens voice. Lets go get some food, Aymeric. Im starving, she says. Why dont we go to the grocery so I can cook you a nice meal, he says back. Fuck me, I think to myself. I can perfectly understand skipping a drink with a friend to be with a beautiful woman, but this guy is going to blatantly skip the first date (because everybody knows that a woman coming back to the house for a meal and a shag is not considered a date) and try to proceed directly to intercourse. This is a sleazy move, indeed, but I respect his forward ambitionits never going to workthere is no way she can fall for this. That sounds so wonderful. Oh, please make me some beignets, she says in a trampy high-pitched squeal.

The French, the Woman, the Haircut, and the Damn Chicago wind Fuck me again, I think. Not only is she falling for the sleaziness, but she has no idea

beignets are a Cajun tradition (not French), or how much time goes into making the delicious treats. You cant just ask someone to make a dish from scratch. Its a time consuming chore that she obviously has no knowledge of. At this point I know my day, or my life for that matter, has hit a cynical low point, and I begin spiraling into a deep depressive state. I need to get away and distract my mind somehow. Perhaps, a haircut would be fitting, I think to myself. Yes! Yes, a haircut, indeed! I yell, Goodbye, yall, to Aymeric and Kathleen, but theyre minds are so entertained with the thought of getting into each others pants that apparently no one else around here exists. So, naturally I get no response from either of them. I walk out the door, and once again the bitter Chicago wind gives me a firm slap in the face. It isnt an open handed slap as much as it is a bitchslap, but maybe it feels like that considering my current mood. Bad mood or not, I am on a mission to keep my mind off of Aymeric stealing the girl of my dreams and ditching me. I must focus on getting my haircut. Who knows, when Kathleen comes back to record and sees my new haircut she might ask me to make her some beignets-- I have decided that making beignets is the new euphemism for sex. The twisting candy-cane-like barber thing comes into sight about three more blocks down Halsted Street. Its about time, I thought. I dont exactly know my way around the city yet so walking around until I find what Im looking for is my method of navigation. The homeless are lining the street corners looking to spend their hard earned money on booze outside the strip of blues clubs

The French, the Woman, the Haircut, and the Damn Chicago wind

when I approach the worn down barbershop building. I try and open the door, but it makes a forceful effort to stay shut. Closed, I say in a scoffing tone. I try the door again, but this time with a little muscle, and it pops open. The place is rather antiquated, but Im a sucker for old-timey dcor. It smells of old hair, cigars, and cleaning solution. There are black and white pictures of Chicago Cubs memorabilia surrounding the wood panel walls. I hear some shuffling in the back, and through two swinging doors (Like the ones in old wild-west films) walks out an old man. He slowly makes his way across the checkerboard vinyl floors. Hey there, He says in a grunting manner. Hey. Im in need of a haircut, I say back, with anticipated interest in his next move. Well, I usually only work by appointment, but I guess I can fit you in right quick. I thank him, and he takes me through another set of swinging wild-west doors that lead to his compact work station. Im Bernie, He says, and sticks his hand out for me to shake. My name is Bernard, too! Good to meet you, Bernie. I say while shaking his hand, but he doesnt seem to think anything of it. I mean, its not everyday that that a guy in his eighties has the same name as a guy in his twenties. There is an awfully big generation gap there, and the common choices of names usually change every ten to twenty years. Bernie not putting any thought into our names being the same should have given me fair warning about his mental state. You know Im the oldest barber within five-hundred miles of here, he says in a gloating way.

The French, the Woman, the Haircut, and the Damn Chicago wind Thats wonderful, I say in a mildly confused but really sarcastic way (he doesnt catch

that). I dont ask him his exact age because I assume the years just kind of mesh together once someone exceeds eighty-five or so. How much do you want cut? he asks. About an inch, please. You got it, He says in his usual grunt. As I glance at his hands I notice he can barely hold the scissors and the comb. This is a pretty good cue to get up and leave, but I decide to stick it out. Maybe, he will pleasantly surprise me with his arthritic-ridden hands and actually give me a fine cut. So, I hold my breath while he inches closer to my greasy scalp. His claw-like hands do some last minute soul-searching in order to find some dexterity, and in one fatal swoop he chops (not cuts, or snips, or slices, but chops) a solid four inches of hair from the side of my head. I thought we agreed on an inch! I think to myself. My heart starts palpitating as he keeps chopping away frantically. Believe it or not, but I can live with short hair. The fact that he took four inches off in length doesnt bother me nearly as much as how fucking ridiculous and uneven it looks. I dont wish this situation on anyone. Its like being tortured but having the right to get up and leave whenever you want. Welp, thanks for prying off my toenails and jabbing that rusty blade into my ribs, but I think thatll be enough for today. I think. For some reason I refuse to stop Bernie from his given task of dropping, yet another, steaming pile of crap onto my day. I begin to laugh (to myself, of course) as I see my reflection in the mirror, and all of the sudden my cynical thoughts and depression vanishes. Instead of thinking how awful I look I begin thinking how much Aymeric is

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The French, the Woman, the Haircut, and the Damn Chicago wind

going to laugh about Bernies perplexing salon skills when he sees this cool hairdo. Not only am I over my bad mood, but I am happy, even though it looks like there is a dead badger on my head. That will be fourteen dollars, says Bernie. And knowing that Bernie should not receive any money for this service, I hand him a twenty. Keep the change, Bern. I say as I rise from the revolving chair. I give him a smile and a nod of approval as I make my way out of the barber shop. And, for the first time of the day Im greeted with a refreshing gust of Chicago wind.

The sound of my alarm actually wakes me up this morning, and I gallantly spring out bed with great anticipation for the day. Its much more pleasant to hear the siren-like wake-up-call rather than Aymerics hollering voice. Without thinking I throw on all the same clothes as yesterday, but manage to put on a fresh pair of undies (out of common courtesy for myself). Deciding to wait for Aymeric by the light post outside my building I realize the air is calm today. Something feels odd. Five minuets pass. Ten minutes pass, but still no Aymeric- Fifteen minutes is my limit- not a second past fifteen. And, sure enough Aymeric pulls thorough at the last moment. I see him in the distance weaving in and out of the garbage cans lining the city streets (damn, I forgot it was garbage day), except he is holding hands with the beautiful, Kathleen Robertson. They approach me, and with out a sound we make our way down the noisy sidewalk; Me, the French, the woman, my haircut, and the absence of the wind in the windy city.

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The French, the Woman, the Haircut, and the Damn Chicago wind