“Mirrors are pools where the soul bathes its wounds. See there! I have a salve and. poultice to heal that one. Take them. Allow me, in return, to set the gods an example of mercy and a modest profit.”
—Kessler
Danny had known for weeks that it would come to this and yet he had no sense of decision; instead, of further concession. He knocked on the door.
A muffled voice invited him to enter. He pushed the door open and stepped into a long shadow-draped hallway. Danny pitched his voice to the end of the hallway. “Mr. Kessler?”
“I’m taking a bath.”
Danny traced the answer to a closed door deeper in the hallway. “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want me to wait?”
“You should have called for an appointment.” There was a short period of busy splashing before, “Tell me, my man, When did you start losing your hair?”
Danny was embarrassed. He moved closer to the door. “About three months ago.”
“It’s too soon. Much too soon. You are practically new born. You must wait a while longer before Kessler can help you. Come back again, sometime.”
Danny wanted to know when to return but Kessler went on, “When you decide please telephone for an appointment. You’ll know when it’s time to come again. Make sure the door is closed behind you, please.”
Too surprised to feel anything Danny obeyed and closed the door to the dim hallway.
An hour later Danny stood before another door, this on the sixth floor of a mid-town office building, reading and rereading its legend, Suite 606: The Barton System.
His deliberation about entering versus not, shame versus modesty, skepticism versus faith was nullified by the laughing chatter of two approaching office girls. Danny opened the door to Suite 606 and found himself in a comfortably furnished office with pine panels and soft indirect lighting. Across the room a young man dressed like an intern smiled and motioned him to a chair beside his desk. While taking the few steps to the chair Danny cautioned himself to resist believing too easily; he planned to keep mental debit and credit entries on the sales talk.
The man in the white uniform said, “My name is Dave Lapp.”
“I’m Danny Foxe.”
They shook hands. Dave Lapp straightened the papers on his desk and looked at Danny as if to say, What can I do for your? Rather than explain, Danny removed his hat.
“When did you start losing your hair?”
Exactly the question Kessler asked and Danny repeated his answer, “About three months ago,” and he added, “it began to fall in handfuls.”
Dave Lapp nodded thoughtfully, inviting Danny to continue. “I was shaving and all of a sudden . . . I saw my hair all over the sink.” The words were out and he wiped his lips as though his speech had stained.
“Just relax. I know how you feel. Have one.” He offered Danny a cigarette and lit it for him. He beamed a friendly smile while Danny stared at his hair. It was a mane of brown-blackish color grown long enough for a woman; combed high on top, straight back on the sides making it appear like a turban. Danny felt that he couldn’t possibly understand—a debit entry.
“For thirty-seven years,” Dave Lapp said with a tinge of rote, “the Barton System has been a citadel for men with alopecia. That’s the technical term, it’s our business to know.”
Danny inhaled his cigarette and exhaled a smile in return for Dave Lapp’s.
“Usually, I don’t explain this to everyone,” a pause, then, with slight emphasis, “but I think you’ll understand. As the Barton System is a scientific method we had a well-known psychologist study our clients, discreetly of course, so that we could understand them better. He found a majority of men with alopecia react in a definite way. They lose confidence in their potency, they tend to be overly sensitive, overly polite. They exhibit a pervasive deference. Generally, they feel unworthy or guilty.” He studied Danny, “From my experience I’d say these findings apply to you,” he qualified, “though not entirely.”
Danny replied that he thought there was a great deal of truth in the findings of the well-known psychologist—a credit entry. He had become apologetic and deferential while he admitted, to himself, that Kessler came closer to an explanation when he described Danny, through the bathroom door, as “new born.” It was a self he lacked. The quarrel between the memory of who he was and the face he saw in the mirror left him without a someone to be.
“Why’d you wait until now to see us?”
“I don’t know. When it began I didn’t know what to do.”
“Well, I can’t say definitely, but those three months may count against you.”
Danny was about to ask what kind of handicap his hesitation would be when his thought was complicated by a comparison; to Kessler three months were brief and indifferent to his case, and here that time might be punitively long.
In a serious tone Dave Lapp digressed, “Do you believe we can help you?”
The question, unanticipated, pleased Danny by the honesty it implied-a credit entry. “To tell the truth, I’m a little doubtful but I’d like to believe you can.”
“I’m quite sure you’ll be convinced. Now, there’s some information we must have.” Dave Lapp took a yellow card from a drawer and plucked one of three pens offered by a white marble desk set. “Full name?”
“Danny Foxe. I spell it F-O-X-E.”
“I see. Age?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Place of business?”
“I’m an auditor for the Munroe Furniture Company. We’re at eight, eight, one, Columbus Avenue.”
“Salary?”
Misgiving, Danny asked, “What do you need that for?” preparing a large debit entry.
Dave Lapp smiled indulgently, “We must know beforehand whether a client can manage the prescribed treatment.”
It seemed like an honest explanation. “I average a hundred and ten with overtime.”
“Did either of your grandfathers have alopecia?” He restated in a softer voice, “Were they bald?”
“My grandfathers?”
Another indulgent smile, “These questions will help us to make a profile of the hereditary forces involved in your condition.”
“It sounded funny, that’s all. Only one was. My mother’s father.”
“Your father?”
“He died when I was a kid. He had all his hair.”
“Have you been sick recently?”
“No. Just a cold once in a while.”
“Last question. How did you learn about the Barton System?”
“I’ve seen your ads in the paper.”
Dave Lapp returned the pen to its holder. “Now, our examination. Over here, please.” Danny moved to a white-enameled chair to his right. Dave Lapp prepared himself by dusting his hands with a white powder. “It’s antiseptic,” he said; from a green glass jar standing on a corner of his desk he took a translucent plastic comb packaged in cellophane. Unwrapping the comb he said, “We keep all our instruments sterilized, you see.” He touched a switch on his desk and a bright white fluorescent light stuttered to life above Danny’s head. Dave Lapp used the sterile comb to push aside the wiry tufts of hair carefully arranged to cover as much of Danny’s scalp as possible. He combed down the middle of Danny’s head, starting each stroke at the back and ending high on the forehead. At the end of each stroke he murmured either a confirming, “Hmmm,” or a quizzically inflected “Hmmm?”
_____________
Back at his desk Dave Lapp snapped the comb in two; dropping the pieces into a waste basket he sloganed under his breath, “Expensive but preventive.” He picked up Danny’s information form and slowly summed the items; he leaned back and said, “Mr. Foxe, there are only two causes of alopecia, regardless of what you’ve heard. One is illness and that doesn’t concern us. The other does. Take the common phrase ‘inherited baldness.’ It simply means an inherited tendency to have a poor blood supply to the scalp. An efficient blood supply is the secret of life and health.” He paused and looked at Danny to indicate that he could ask a question. Danny had none so he asked, “Are you in the habit of brushing your hair, daily?”
“Yes, almost every day.”
Dave Lapp pounced on Danny’s answer, “Vigorously?”
“No. Not too hard.”
“I thought so.” Dave Lapp smiled a justified smile. “You see, Mr. Foxe, the scalp is like the skin all over the body. It grows a top layer, what’s technically called the epidermis. This layer is dead tissue and must be removed so blood can circulate freely and provide the tissue underneath with nourishment. Vigorous brushing is one way to remove the epidermis. Now, if it isn’t removed the hair roots, technically called follicles, get clogged up.” A preface of silence as he leaned forward, “In other words, the roots get buried alive and die.” An epilogue of silence as he leaned back. “When you pinch a healthy scalp it becomes red. That means a good blood supply. Your scalp is pale. A healthy scalp is loose, permitting efficient circulation. Yours is very tight.”
“Sounds hopeless,” Danny said softly.
Dave Lapp encouraged, “Not entirely. Your scalp shows years of neglect. There’s a great accumulation of dead tissue. However, I think that underneath your follicles are in good condition. The Barton System aims to rescue suffocating follicles and restore them to their fullest capacity.”
Cautiously, Danny asked, “What are the chances of my hair growing back?”
“Remember, I said,” he raised a finger as if pointing back to the word, “‘restore.’ Not grow. We’d be frauds if we promised to ‘grow’ hair. For thirty-seven years the Barton System has been the only scientific method available to rescue man from alopecia. We can prove, with unsolicited testimonials, that we’ve restored hair to eighty-five per cent of our clients. They can see this restoration after a few months. This is because we treat only those we know we can help.”
Danny succeeded in asking matter of factly, “Do you think I fit into that eighty-five per cent?”
“From my examination,” a pause for suspense, “I feel there’s an excellent chance.”
Reprieved, Danny sighed, “Well, okay. I’m a client.”
“Congratulations. I’m doubly glad because I always like to meet a man with an open mind. Would you like to begin treatment today?”
“Sure. I guess I’ve wasted enough time.”
“Fine. I’ll arrange for an operator. Excuse me.” Dave Lapp rose and went through a doorway on the other side of the room.
Danny got up and moved to a wall, on his left, that held a mirror. Assuring himself that he was still alone he looked into it and was shocked to see his scant hair standing on end from Dave Lapp’s combing, dry and twisted; surrounding the ruined crown was thick, very black hair that had recently covered it all. Danny checked and examined his impulse to smooth it down and felt it to be dishonest. There was no need to pretend here; here he was merely data on a yellow card. Data eligible for a system, a scientific equation which didn’t include the self he was or the one he’d lost. He gladly accepted the privilege offered by the system, the privilege of a convalescent, to suspend volition and personality until the chemistry was finished.
Dave Lapp returned. “I have an operator for you. Our treatment has three parts. First, our special formula shampoo. Then, the Barton solution. It will burn a little but we have to get rid of that dead tissue. Lastly, the most pleasant part, our special massage. The treatment takes an hour and there’s no tipping allowed. When you’re through I’ll be here and we can arrange your schedule. I prescribe three treatments per week. Each treatment is four dollars. Four for fifteen if paid in advance.”
Another young man stood in the doorway Dave Lapp had gone and come through. He directed Danny’s attention to him, “Mr. Foxe, this is Carl. He’ll take good care of you.”
_____________
Danny followed Carl—who was also dressed like an intern and had an abundance of hair exceeding Dave Lapp’s—into a dressing room where he recalled and dismissed his debit and credit entries. He hoped enough for it to pass as belief. From the dressing room they went into a large windowless room. “This is the clinic. It’s completely air conditioned. That keeps the air pure and bacteria free.” The floor was covered with immaculate white tile. A ribbon of mirror a yard wide circled the room and was bordered by more white tile which ran up to the ceiling and down to the floor. White fluorescent lights were almost in-invisible against the white ceiling. Ten white-enameled chairs faced the mirror on one side of the clinic. Behind each chair was a tripod supporting a chrome-plated cone. Carl explained, “They’re humidifiers. We use them with the Barton solution, you’ll see.” He pointed to a row of sinks, “Over here, first.”
Danny sat down and was tipped back until his neck rested in a groove in the sink and his head in Carl’s hands. The shampoo was accomplished quickly and pleasantly, three soapings and rinsings. After his head was dried with a “. . . sterile towel” Carl offered, pointing to the white-enameled chairs and chrome apparatus, “Take your pick. Most of the treatments are given after seven. That’s when it gets busy.”
Choosing a chair at one end of the row, Carl draped another sterile towel around Danny’s shoulders. From somewhere in his uniform he produced a small corked bottle of clear liquid. “This is the Barton solution.”
Danny felt that it was right for it to be colorless and pure.
Uncorking the bottle Carl sprinkled a few drops of the solution on Danny’s head and with his free hand massaged it into the scalp. “You’ll feel it burn a little but that’s the only way to get rid of the dead tissue. Here’s the humidifier. It steams your scalp and opens the pores. That lets the solution penetrate.”
Danny’s scalp began to sting. Carl slipped the cone over his head; a switch clicked and the cone started to hum. A mist filtered from the cone around Danny’s face. “That’s fine,” Carl said reassuringly; “if you want me, press this button on the arm.” Danny watched Carl, in the mirror, leave; he was alone in the white clinic.
The wispy strands of mist knit themselves into a fog and obscured the mirror. The burning feeling grew more intense, and gave Danny a sense of being purged. He was no longer a victim. It was a struggle now. He had an enemy, “the accumulation of dead tissue,” and a weapon, “the Barton System.”
The cone hummed diligently and thickened the vapor into a cloud. The steam was white before it was nothing, blending into the white of the room, enveloping Danny in an illuminated darkness. He gave in, his senses relented, he had a feeling of peace despite the assault of the Barton solution.
He heard footsteps and brushed a peephole into his cloud. It was Carl with another client. They passed to the sinks before he could see their faces in the mirror. The cone repaired the damage and Danny thought about the other client. He thought with the word “we,” forming or joining a community with the nine empty chairs on his left. According to Dave Lapp a little better than eight of the ten chairs would be rescued; that left fifteen per cent, a chair and a half, beyond salvage. He straightened up in his chair, pushing his head deeper into the cone to speed penetration of the solution.
Carl turned the humidifier off and the cloud disappeared. He toweled Danny’s head again and connected a vibrator to the humidifier. He pressed the electric pulse to Danny’s head until Danny felt his own heart rhythm throb through his scalp. When the vibrator was turned off, Danny had finished his first Barton treatment; he was stranded with an excitement that had no content. As he left the white clinic Danny counted seven sad knights wearing chrome helmets and vapor visors.
Danny returned to the office; Dave Lapp asked, “Feels good, huh?”
Touching his forehead, Danny answered, “It feels alive.”
“Now, your schedule. How about Monday, Wednesday, and Friday? Same time. You can pay for each treatment separately or take four for fifteen dollars. In advance, you save a dollar this way.”
“I’ll take the four for fifteen.”
_____________
Danny stopped counting treatments after the tenth. From that point he used weeks to measure the Barton system. Three times each week he met Carl or another hirsute, uniformed young man and was shampooed, humidified, and vibrated in the white clinic.
During the eighth week Dave Lapp came into the clinic to examine Danny. He inspected his scalp and took Carl off to a corner for a “. . . consultation.” Dave Lapp’s prognosis, “You should be flaking soon. That means the first strata of dead tissue is corning off.”
Danny flaked the following week. His scalp snowed dandruff. He was ecstatic; the Barton System applied to him. He was safe from the vagaries of a unique case, he was normal and predictable. Danny suggested an increase in his schedule of treatment to five each week.
Dave Lapp agreed but cautioned, “We can’t rush nature and undo years of neglect, overnight.”
Danny agreed but his mind went ahead and put a tune to the words, “eighty-five per cent.” He became addicted to the daily applications of the Barton solution. Danny needed the regular jolts of pain to attend his feelings of regeneration.
In the second week after the third month Dave Lapp predicted another flaking. Two days later Danny reported that it had begun. Dave Lapp asked him to the enameled chair near his desk and switched on the overhead light. Uncellophaning a comb he raked the dandruff from Danny’s scalp. “Just a minute,” Dave Lapp said. He took two small mirrors from a desk drawer. He held one above Danny’s head and fixed the other in Danny’s hands, at eye level, to catch the reflection of his head. “See? Here!” He traced the perimeter of Danny’s hairline with the comb. “We’ve done it!” Meaning a patch of blond, downy fuzz.
In a panic Danny turned and asked Dave Lapp’s satisfied face, “What do you mean ‘done it’? My hair’s black.”
“Take it easy, Mr. Foxe.” Dave Lapp sat down behind his desk. “I mean we’ve reached your active follicles.” He hinted a smile.
“This isn’t what you promised me.”
“Please,” in a firmer tone, “we never promised anything except to restore those follicles that are still alive and I called you in so you could see for yourself that the Barton System does work.”
Danny’s voice squealed out of control, “But, this isn’t my hair.”
“I thought your attitude was excellent but now I can see that you’ve misunderstood a great deal. We’ve restored those follicles that are still alive. We may be able to rescue others deeper in your scalp. It all depends on how much life you have there.”
“Will they be black hair?”
“I can’t say. I think your disappointment is due to what you wished for rather than the actual results. Basically, what you want is magic, we deal in facts, science. One’s reality and the other isn’t.”
Danny tried a compromise, “How long will it take to reach the deeper follicles?”
“I can’t guarantee there are any. You’ve responded to treatment very nicely and there may be further improvement. I sincerely recommend you continue. If I were you I’d consider it the only practical thing to do.”
Danny lit a cigarette and was silent.
To prod a response Dave Lapp said, “Those are the facts.”
“I’ll call you Monday.”
“What about your treatment today?”
“No. I’ll let you know Monday.”
_____________
Danny spent the weekend in bed with the blinds drawn against light and sound. Hermetically sealed from time, the scene of his injury, it was painless for him to think about his hair. He recalled his last exchange with Dave Lapp and abstracted, “. . . you want magic, we deal in facts, science . . . one’s reality and the other isn’t.” Danny itemized the facts in Dave Lapp’s reality; the white clinic, the Barton solution, humidification collaborating to produce a blond fuzz. But there were other facts, predicates to Dave Lapp’s.
Getting up, he turned on a lamp. He went to his bureau and pulled out the bottom drawer. Carrying it to his bed, he inhaled a confusion of perfume. It was his souvenir drawer and he emptied it on his bed; a handful of unmatched earrings, lipstick tubes, a few pieces of lingerie, makeup compacts, and cigarette lighters.
One by one he replaced them, recalling a circumstance and name for each. He found himself estranged from these memoirs. They were, now, apocryphal biography, taken on faith, relics, belonging to him now as much as the stories told him about his infancy.
Last was a cigarette lighter, Barbara’s, a brunette, one of four Barbaras he’d known. Danny held it over the drawer recognizing it as the last. He had a sudden thought of death and the sorting out and storing away that follows. Unwilling to have an end, he spilled his souvenirs back on the bed; there’d be no end.
He picked up the phone book and searched for the pages labeled “hair.” There were four pages of ads with pictures and slogans, all preferring the large type for the term “transformation” to the smaller for “wig” and “toupee.” For the second time Danny found the austere square inch which stated, “Kessler, an artist,” an address and phone number. Danny copied the numbers down, he’d call Monday after work.
_____________
The phone was picked up after seven rings and a voice inquired, “Yes?”
“Mr. Kessler? I don’t know if you remember me. I came to see you a few months ago and. . . .”
“Your name?”
“I didn’t tell you then. You were taking a bath. Remember?”
“I’m home now. Come over.” The receiver was replaced.
Danny walked down the dim hallway following Kessler’s instructions. “Come all the way. I’m in the kitchen.”
Kessler sat at a table littered with movie magazines. He was middle-aged, of medium height, and almost fat. He had a pale round face, light blue eyes, and a small flat nose. Danny was disappointed by his hair. He’d expected him to have either a thick crop or none at all. Kessler’s was sandy colored and thin, showing his scalp.
They looked at each other for a moment and Kessler said, holding up a magazine, “Research.” He dropped it, “To business. I’ll provide answers without troubling you for the questions. First, it will not fall off. Second, no one will know you are wearing one. Right?”
Danny began a response to the gratuitous answers when Kessler continued, “Also, you want to know if Kessler really is an artist as he advertises.” Danny staggered back as Kessler ripped his thin sandy hair off and revealed a thick, shiny black crew cut. “Do you doubt?”
“Christ! I never thought you had one.”
“Thank you, my boy. I remember when you first came I sent you away to ripen. There’s more to this than buying and selling. It concerns the soul.”
“I think I’m ready.” Impressed with the style of Kessler’s speech, he tried to imitate, “You were correct in sending me away. Now, I see my situation . . . in terms of science and magic.”
“You don’t say?” Kessler said, his eyes wide in mock surprise. “They are more extravagant components than I usually deal with. Please, go on.”
Flustered, Danny lit a cigarette slowly to mask the assembling of a redeeming interpretation. “Well, truthfully, I was glad when you sent me away. I guess I still had some hope left. I mean that my hair’d grow back. So, then, I went to the Barton System. If you’ve read their ads . . . they’re so easy to believe. They’re logical, I mean scientific. There’s something to them but it didn’t work for me. What I meant before was that the science didn’t work for me so now I’m ready for what I called magic, a pretense.”
Kessler shook his head doubtfully. “You are mistaken, my boy. Kessler does not traffic in magic or pretense. Kessler will give you something you can feel and see. Something real to the world. What you call science is simply sophisticated magic. It’s the manipulation of matter plus dull ritual that cancels out mystery and joy by a high rate of probability. It’s reality for those of meager faith, for those who take definitions seriously instead of appearances. Kessler will give you all the reality you can endure, he will give you illusion.” More doubtful shaking of the head. “There is a chance you expect too much,” he smiled, “but Kessler will gamble on his power to prepare you.”
“I guess I got my story a little tangled. I should have just said ‘I need it.’”
“Yes, but we shall assume you require instruction. To business, I take three orders each month. I cannot rush. Since I have my quota this month you shall return next Thursday and bring a picture of yourself. As you were before. Price depends on the work. Minimum, two hundred, cash.”
Danny nodded.
“I won’t do this to you.” He picked up a magazine with a handsome movie star on the cover. “They disguise. Kessler consults the soul.”
Danny left the apartment still shaken by the picture of Kessler crumpling his sandy-haired wig into a ball and tossing it on the table.
_____________
On Thursday Kessler examined the photograph Danny brought. It was taken at a cousin’s wedding and showed Danny in a tuxedo. “Yes, yes, you were noble, you were royal, my boy. Kessler will give you the sign again. You will have another coronet. Today, I only require this.” He snipped a lock of hair from the side of Danny’s head. “For color, texture. Come back Monday.”
“Is that all there is to it?”
“Too abrupt? Oh, I know. You’ve graduated from the Barton people. You should have a procedure. Kessler can be efficient. We will have an interview.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just thought there’d be more.” He really did want to stay and talk.
“I have a questionnaire especially for my customers. It’s brief and about love. It demands that you reveal your most secret secret. The one you promised never to tell.”
Danny knew he was being teased and he knew he’d tell; first he stalled, “I don’t have any.”
“Why else would you be here? Except for love. Don’t be coy. It’s a part of the procedure.”
Pleased, attempting nonchalance, “I don’t know if you’d call this a secret. It’s more of a thing I know to meet women. The best time is Monday and Tuesday nights. Late at night. The whole town goes to bed early because the weekend is too far away to postpone sleep against it. So, you meet people who are a little reckless.”
He wanted to be coaxed for details but Kessler was satisfied. “A valuable city secret. Another question, tell me how you please women?”
“I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t too bad looking, before.”
“Was that your most special quality?”
“It’s the most important thing to women,” Danny said seriously. “They talk a lot about personality and things but there’s no substitute.”
Kessler’s broad smile introduced laughter. “Enough. You are pure. Pure enough to discontent Kessler with his power.”
“I didn’t mean . . .” Danny defended against the laughter.
“Please, don’t be offended. I meant that there are limits and rules to art, even mine. They separate art from the divine and for you Kessler would like to be a god. To raise you up again. I’ve weaved many bonnets for many humiliated Samsons but never one so perfect. Never one so. . . .”
A growing anxiety made Danny interrupt, “What makes me . . . different?”
“You know Samson’s story, don’t you see any similarity?”
Danny shook his head to mean yes and to mean no.
“Again, don’t be offended. We’re being didactic you and I, not personal. Also, I must remind you about the instruction I’d furnish. Understood? Good. Samson was a man with one quality, one special quality that released him from life as it is to men. He was exempt from fear. Life for him was a minor of applause. He took every morsel . . . pride. A god will not mouth a petty word like ‘ingratitude,’ they prefer ‘pride.’ Ergo, Delilah. Here is the irony. After Samson was contrite and forgiven, his strength returned and he redestroyed himself. He never did understand. Now, to the analogy. In our time the gods do not employ Delilahs. . . .” Kessler broke off as Danny rose from his chair.
Danny looked at his watch and lied about having an appointment. He hadn’t followed the last part of Kessler’s speech. It seemed that the texture of Kessler’s voice had changed from the bantering questions of a few moments ago, giving Danny a premonition that imminently it would shape something unpleasant, something he shouldn’t hear.
“I’m sorry to make you late by talking so much. Come tomorrow. Same time here in Gaza and we begin to measure.”
_____________
The kitchen table was covered by a neat arrangement of compasses, paper, and pencils. Danny sat in a chair close to it while Kessler made his calculations and spoke on, “My life’s work. The falsification of nature’s intentions. That, my boy, is what accounts for the human condition. Fools will tell you that to be human is to be conscious or that we are unique because we alone have a foreknowledge of our death. Nonsense. Besides, they can’t prove either. But, to falsify! To prove it, ask yourself what in use any beast would have for a mirror? Done, proved. We paint, perfume, pad, and suffer the agony of discovery. That’s the proper business for a priest.” He repeated his premises and conclusions before coming to specific examples. “Those Shakespearian actors, in tights. You watch the women in front. You’ll see where they’re looking. There’s never been an actor who didn’t pad his part.”
On his next appointment, the day for fitting the scalp, Kessler opened the door for Danny. He was gleeful at Danny’s astonishment. Instead of the sandy-haired wig or his real crew cut, Kessler’s face was haloed by bright red curls. “Do you like it? My lady friend complains of a lack of variety. Tonight, I shall be varied for her.”
The scalp was pronounced, “. . . perfect, a perfect fit and it won’t shrink. It will take a few days to festoon. Your penance is three hundred and fifty. Ten-dollar notes, if you can.”
Danny gave Kessler a white envelope. Kessler asked, “Ten-dollar notes?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Good.” Kessler left the room and returned with a small gray box. “Here is your reprieve.” He shook the box, “Hear it?”
Danny heard a little crush of tissue paper.
“We should have a ceremony. First, a blessing.” He tapped Danny on the forehead with his index finger. “I bless you. However, you will have to anoint yourself. In the box are two tubes, a paste and a cosmetic. There is a paper with instructions. My lady friend types them for me. Kessler has given you the sign and you will know how to wear it better than he. All he asks is that you come and show him.”
“Thanks.” He gestured with his hand to indicate that that was all he could say.
“Come and show me. We’ll have another talk.”
At home, Danny removed his wig from the box and placed it on his dresser. It seemed to him that Kessler had collected every hair he’d lost. He examined the tubes and read the typewritten instruction sheet. It had two sections. The first was titled, CARE OF THE ARTIFICE, and had five conditions: 1) spread modest film of paste on clean scalp. 2) press artifice down evenly. 3) use cosmetic to blend hairline into forehead. 4) do not sleep with artifice. 5) when not in use place on object that will preserve contour.
The second section was titled, ADJUSTMENT TO ARTIFICE, with three conditions: 1) wear artifice in privacy. 2) wear artifice under hat on walks. 3) wear artifice openly in the movies.
At the bottom of the page was the single line, “Kessler is always available.”
After two readings Danny had memorized all the conditions. He decided to fulfill them over the weekend and see Kessler on Monday night. Danny washed his head and applied a modest film of paste. He pressed the artifice down, it slipped a bit before holding firm, and he blended the hairline into his forehead with the cosmetic.
The mirror verified the word “transformation” used in the phone book ads. The thick black wavy hair, a few locks casually tasseling his forehead, transformed Danny’s face from thin to delicate. The shadows around his eyes were anchored, softening them; the straight line of his nose took a hint of grace, his mouth was defined as full and strong. This face was the sign of who he used to be.
Tonight he’d wear it in his apartment, tomorrow under his hat on a walk, and Sunday openly in the movies. Using a grapefruit to preserve its contour overnight, until he got something better, Danny dispatched the final condition.
_____________
Kessler opened the door for Danny. “Yes, I remember, you had a penchant for Monday and Tuesday nights. Let me see you. Come into the kitchen where the light is better.”
He turned Danny’s head from side to side. “I’m proud, very proud. Sit down, we’ll have our talk.”
“Sure.” Danny forced a smile.
“You know, my boy, that Kessler works close to the brain,” he showed Danny his hands, “and he can feel things that are left unsaid. I talk to my customers without a word. Can you imagine what my fingers hear?”
Danny made what he thought was a reflective face to hold Kessler’s attention. He felt the same urge to escape from Kessler’s tone of voice as he had when Kessler spoke about Samson. Unable to answer or maintain the pretense of thought, he shrugged his shoulders.
Kessler continued.
“At times, my fingers hear hate. Hate for their luck or me. Others admit the deception as a necessity and others are satisfied that they can suffer more. They always have a conclusion. Except you. You haven’t spoken to Kessler’s fingers. I felt your brain say, ‘Hush, hide, he’s listening.’ You haven’t told yourself about the artifice.”
Danny was right about Kessler’s voice. He had to escape. He looked at his watch to re-play the lie of having an appointment and then at Kessler to tell it, when he caught his reflection in the window. He’d forgotten, he’d been restored, there was no reason for fright. “You’ve been trying to draw me out since I came here. I don’t know about your fingers but I do know you’re overestimating me. You are overestimating the whole thing. I only want to believe in myself. I couldn’t be the same without my hair.”
“Are you the same?”
Danny slumped back in his chair.
With a deep sigh, almost an apology, Kessler rose and went to the window. He said, his back turned on Danny, “I’m justified in calling you an exhibit of mine. . . .”
“I’m not that,” Danny said weakly. “I’m almost what . . . I was. All I want is to go back. To have my life again.”
Still looking through the window, as though respecting modesty, Kessler said, “You see, you said, ‘almost what I was.’ And how much of your life is left?” Kessler spoke slowly to allow interruption, “After all, I have a right to ask these questions for it was I who. . . .” Kessler broke off as he saw a handsome young man leave his building and cross the street. He got into a car and drove away.
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Danny paid for the last round of drinks. For the last hour he, the bartender, and the pretty blonde had been talking. During the three-cornered conversation Danny and the blonde caught each other’s eyes and exchanged looks of more significance than the conversation warranted. Danny finished his drink and said goodbye.
His car was parked a short way from the bar. He got into the back seat to get a better view of the bar. Trembling with excitement, he knew if she came she’d take at least five minutes. He waited. He promised himself that he’d only wait ten minutes. It was only two or three minutes since he left.
The door to the bar opened and the blonde came out. She lit a cigarette, looked right and left, up and down the block.
Danny’s heart abandoned its rhythm and beat single, powerful strokes that shook his body.
She walked to the curb and looked across the street, again right and left, up and down the block.
Danny’s heart was in riot.
The blonde took a pair of glasses-from her purse and put them on, stepped into the gutter and looked right and left, up and down the block. She returned the glasses to her purse and walked away.
Danny lay across the back seat. He wanted to smoke but couldn’t manage to get his cigarettes. After a while he climbed over to the front seat, pleasantly tired and hungry. He started the car and at the first red light switched on the radio. He dialed until he found music that suited his mood, dreamy and relaxing, and hummed along.
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