I felt nervous and asked if I looked all right. I'm not sure, but I think I used the German word for "pretty." Bavarians smile when I mangle their language.
"Of course," she said, "Levi's are okay . . . and don't wear a tie."
I'd never had my hair cut at a high fashion salon before, although I'd often visited her while she was a student hairdresser in this fashionable shop. Today she needed a male model and I didn't have a good excuse.
My regular barber was the typical barber, in a nearly typical shop. One chair. Some waiting. When there were more than two customers sitting on the wooden chairs by the coat rack, he could give a good haircut in 10 to12 minutes. When there was no one but me, he would chat in German about the weather or maybe the hot topic of the day, unhurriedly clipping away, and before too long, I would step from his chair looking younger. That's important when you're old, gray and retired. But this haircut was going to
be different; I was sure of that.
She and I walked together to the subway. I like to go places with her, my ersatz daughter: usually blond, twentyish, often a bit "too" fashionable in her boots and hip-hugging jeans to be seen with an old geezer like me. People gawk.
The building has a history. In an apartment over the Kino on Sendlingertorplatz a small group planned the ill-fated "Bierhalle Putsch." Over the Kino today is a salon: The Hair Project.
We arrived at noon, right on time, and walked up the creaky wooden stairs to the second floor. It wasn't necessary to ring the bell; no one was there except another student, "Jahnah" (J-a-n-e). The salon is bright and airy, not at all like my barber's place. It's a chic shop: uncluttered to a fault, chrome and glass, black leather, high tech everything.
"Would you like an Espresso?" she asked, trying to put me at ease. We were both nervous. I thought not; I felt stressed enough.
