Almost two decades ago, I remember needing a haircut. I walked into the local Supercuts, in Austin’s Arboretum, jotted down my name, sat, and waited. Soon, a guy with tattoo sleeves, glasses, and funky, short hair came up to the counter and called my name. “Leo,” he said, in a deep, musky, cigarette-inspired voice.
I walked up, reached to shake his hand. “Hi, I’m Ben,” he asserted with a firm grip.
As I often did before that fateful day, my mind painted a picture of Ben, whom I’d never met. As the only man styling that warm afternoon, “Perhaps he’s a high school dropout with nothing else to do.” I was certain he was in the middle of the pack among his colleagues – there out of life necessity, not talent.
Ben was warm and kind. He asked if I was on a work break, I said, “Kinda. I work at this great company, Trilogy. They don’t really have office hours. We set our own schedules, so I’m here on my own break,” I said proudly. He asked if I was seeing anyone. Having set off other men’s “Gaydar” (radar for gay men) many times before, I assured him I was straight and bemoaned being single, which I’d been most of my dating life.
This quiet, stern man, who, for a good five to ten minutes, held his guard up so well, opened up. Ben joked about his somewhat serious, mostly fun relationship with a party girl. He’d worked at high end salons, but left. “Too much drama. Too many entitled people who don’t realize how good they have it,” he quipped.
