Johnny S cuts my hair. He is so bright and funny that I don’t mind parting with the fairly substantial amount he extorts from me every five weeks. I have so much faith in his considerable skill that I’ve told him that it’s up to him to decide how to snip: I actually put it this way once, that in this regard, ‘I am his bitch’.
Once, gossiping while he was working his magic, I complained about the behavior of someone we know: he stopped cold, looked at me like I had just fallen off the turnip truck and said, ‘He’s an actor!’ (Johnny is married to a faculty member in the Department of Theatre and Film Studies at the university here.)
At forty-two, Johnny is working on another career; this makes me nervous, as I have come to rely on him. In the past, I’ve had ‘stylists’ who periodically would make me look like a coconut or a Q-tip. I’ve told him that if some day he and Michael decide to relocate, I’m simply going to have to move with them.
Last Tuesday, prior to Stephen’s and my ‘matrimonial’, Johnny whispered to me, mother/daughter fashion, that men being animals, Stephen would probably very soon be asking if he could kiss me on the penis.
A week later, I’m still waiting. But after all this time, I am nothing if not patient.