CROSSING OVER

Amy's moment of truth had finally arrived, and hadn't it been some time coming! A fleeting, sideways glimpse had become an idea, which grew into a fascination, turned into an infatuation, an obsession, and finally, after three uncertain years, action. Even now, she had no idea as to why the nondescript late-middle-aged woman with the G.I. crop had made such an impression. The wrinkled one's shaven gray stubble could only have been in view - what - two seconds maybe, as she'd hurried past to grab a taxi. But the imprint, once made, had found itself tattooed indelibly inside of the young Amy's head. Amy was attractive, unattached, from a good family, and still only 21. Yet at some point in the future, she knew her shoulder-length, raven black locks would have to be gone. Replaced by a cell-block chop that would turn heads wherever she went. It just bugged her that she had no idea as to why this should be the case. Strange thing, desire. It is surely something to be nurtured, even cherished, even when you don't always know the reason for it!

"I'll have it really short, please, all over, take as much off as you want."

It was not as if she hadn't tried. For most of those three years, this had been Amy's usual opening gambit. Keep it vague, you see, and the hairdressers will feel they have free rein and their natural inclination to "go to town" will take over and you'll end up bald. That's what the girls in the bank said, anyway. So Amy did her best. Really she did - give them the idea, but leave it open-ended enough to let them indulge their whims. Trouble was, her own fantasies were obviously far more imaginative than those of the scissor-wielders; for they'd always want to leave her locks 'a bit bushy round the temples' or 'saving a bit of the length at the back.' Saving for what, Christmas? Why wouldn't these people just do as they were (almost) told? Were they timid, inept or maybe just afraid of being sued? Each time, she would leave the salon with a nice, stylish, elfin, even sometimes boyish crop. But always with more than really required. Amy didn't want "nice"; she wanted "harsh", "severe", even "brutal"! And everywhere she went, so-called "stylists" were just too darned polite to do it.

So in the end, there had to be a choice. Buy a set of buzzy clipper things and do it yourself. Or get a gents' barber to do it. Realistically there wasn't actually a choice, since the first option just never would have occurred to a young clerk from a sheltered upbringing in a mid-size semi-rural town. As it was, the barber shop idea was as "out there" as any she'd ever had, and Amy knew straight off that her parents would probably be heartbroken. Poor Mom, who had enjoyed nothing more than to run a soft brush lazily through her only child's glossy tresses; that was, before she went short. Even now Amy's haircuts drew many a sorrowful maternal frown ("Please let it grow a bit more, dear, it really doesn't suit you!") What would she be thinking soon? And Dad - he'd probably just stand there scratching his head, looking so perplexed and bewildered that you would expect a cartoon question mark to appear over his brow at any moment. But hey, what self respecting twenty-one year old needs parental approval for everything? Or anything, come to that. Even young kids don't seem to bother these days. She'd probably have to leave home. But there again, what self-respecting blah blah blah... It was probably time to fly the nest anyway.

That was it. Destiny. Time to strike out on my own. Show the world who I really am. And any other platitudes

that come to mind - whatever.

And so this is how the plan - let's call it Operation Big Chop - was to become action. First, you have to find the barber's shop. For what this young woman had in mind, she would prefer an establishment inhabited by a gentleman of advancing years, wearing spectacles, and operating alone. Less trouble that way. Unfortunately, an hour's reconnaissance revealed that such places, if they ever did exist, now only did so in pre-war black and white movies. Where do old-fashioned men go nowadays? It's all "unisex" salons with groan-inducing names like "A Head of our Time" and "Curl Up and Dye", the very same salons that always let her down in the past. Everywhere you looked, bland, easy conformity. Identikit non-choices for the comfortable white middle class.

Of course, there was another way. It was called Highway 406, to be precise. The Road to Nowhere. Certainly nowhere Amy, her family, friends or co-workers had ever thought to venture. The railroad bisecting the 406 had long fallen into disuse, but had its tracks remained then she had always managed to steer this side of them - until now. Not out of choice, you understand. Hell, her folk weren't snobs, or racist or anything, just never found the need to "cross over". But now there was nowhere else to go and unless she was prepared for a 200 mile round trip upstate, then taking a small leap of faith while staying local and was really the only option. Come on, what's the worst that can happen? Dragged off and assaulted down a dark alleyway? Muggers on every street corner? Now that was offensive, and Amy chided herself for even thinking it. There was no time for reflection. Amy grabbed her coat, but before she could make it to the door, Mom called out from the kitchen.

"You going somewhere? Dinner's ready in an hour, you know." That wasn't a problem. An hour should be just enough.

"Oh, uh, just off to Publix for some, uh, groceries." Amy wasn't a convincing liar, but she couldn't bring herself to utter the truth.

"Oh, good - you can get me an eggplant and two small zucchini, I'm making ratatouille tomorrow. And 2 pints of low fat milk. 'Bye."

"Bye Mom." Typical.

The other side of town wasn't too bad, after all. A few boarded up windows, the odd stray dog, some black kids mooching about with a basketball, but nothing even vaguely threatening. The sun was out, so maybe that helped. It didn't take much driving around before she happened upon her prey. Unfortunately, the legend outside read: "Eddie Floyd (Jr.) - Moden Gentlemens Barber", and Amy had a little personal rule which dictated that you should never buy anything from folk who put up a mis-spelled or non-grammatical sign. Sloppy advertising equals sloppy wares, and all that. But could she afford to be so picky? For once, she reckoned this wasn't the time, but this could be the place. There was only one way to find out. She poked her head round the door.

"Hey, any chance for a Modern Lady?"

Immediately, the owner's face contorted into a dismissive scowl. "You kiddin' me, right?" This wasn't looking good. "Last time I saw, it said 'Gentlemen' outside, can't you read? Now git outta here!!"

Not much room for argument there. The lady made a for quick exit, resisting the temptation to remind Mr Floyd (Jr). about his mis-spelling.

That went well, she mused. Happily it was only a couple of blocks away, before another sign hove into view. This one simply read "CURTIS." in big, bold but rather faded white lettering. A lick of paint wouldn't have gone amiss, but it was self-evidently a barber's shop and who could tell where the next opportunity would arise. Parking up right in front in case she needed another speedy exit, Amy approached the heavy wooden door with frosted glass, bearing the word "Saloon" in big cowboy-style lettering. It creaked open to reveal a thick set, middle-aged colored gentleman, wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses, stooped over and totally immersed in the job of buzzing his very old client to within an inch of his life, what was left of it. Neither seemed to notice the girl tip-toeing toward the waiting chairs, and, being the only other person there, she was quite content with that. There was plenty of time to survey the surroundings, and the owner, 'Curtis'. Was that his first or second name? Well, the guy's obviously something of a whizz with the clippers, and he's probably so near-sighted that he can only see people's heads. That's probably why he gives such close haircuts, since he can only see so far! In fact, I'll bet if an orangutan came and sat in the chair he'd just think it was a big fat ginger-headed guy with...

"NEXT! You deaf?"

"Oh! No, sorry... my mind was elsewhere. Yes, so, I guess it's my turn...!"

"WAIT!" 'Curtis' peered inquisitively over the top of his spectacles. He made to speak, checked, and his expression suddenly changed to one of incredulity. Followed by something approaching anger. "You a... a... a WOMAN?"

There would hardly be much point denying it. "Looks like you got me there, sir! Look, I hope you don't mind because I don't..."

"Yeah? Well I DO! What you playin' at, comin' in heah - you blind?"

"Well, no - I just thought..."

"Well ya thought wrong!" In as much as an African-American's face could turn purple, it turned purple. "Ain't seen nothin' like it in all ma born days!. Dumb bitches in my joint? Nivah seen anythin' like it! Nivah!!"

With the big man's insults ringing in her ears Amy knew that having been labeled deaf, dumb, blind and illiterate in the space of thirty chastening minutes, there was only one venue Amy was headed now - the warm, soft, utter predictability of home. It's where you belong at times like this. Home: where girls were girls, men were men, rules were followed and everyone knew their place.

But it was safe, she had to admit that, and dinner was ready in half an hour.

"That was quick! Get my groceries?" A concerned voice drifted over from the kitchen.

Oh hell - completely forgot that. "Er... Publix was closed..."

"Closed? It's 24/7, I'm sure!"

"Uh, no - well, you see, I only went to the gas station next door and - uh, they were out of vegetables..."

"Okay, well make yourself useful and set the table before your Dad gets home."

This dreary domesticity would change soon, that was for sure. If Amy's new look meant a new life then so be it, this life was stifling. In fact, all the more reason to set 'Operation Big Chop' up and running, and as soon as possible. So how best to approach it? To recap, she had no problem finding a so-called "progressive" stylist, but they never took enough off. And any "real barber" that would fit the bill, well, they appeared to take offense at people with tits. Which left only one realistic option. In order to realize her desires, she would have to do like they did in them old

Shakespeare plays - and disguise herself as a boy. Or at best hide her femininity; that couldn't be too difficult, could it?

A few unusual purchases later, now for the checklist:

'Sensible shoes' - check. Not fully sure what that really meant, only that certain women wore them. Amy reckoned an unremarkable pair of sneakers would suffice.