The Good Samaritan by The..Fellow..Traveler

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The drive down the I-10 on this late Sunday afternoon was bearable only thanks to two things: the AC fighting for its life to cool the old car down and the radio playing Otis Redding’s best tracks. Summer in New Orleans is known for its hot and humid beauty, if one could call it that, but this heatwave made the air outside feel like it drifted up from hell itself: warmth radiated off the roof of the black car in front of me as we waited in line, blurring the sight in front of it.

As I was sitting in my car, driving back from my civil engineering conference and softly cursing at my schedule for dooming me on a long wait on the I-10 because I rode it on a Sunday, I noticed a blur of motion in the periphery of my vision. It had to be a mirage; no one in their right mind could possibly be walking the side of the highway in this kind of weather: this was my train of thought until a turn of my head and a more detailed look to my left made me see him properly.

The first thing I noticed was the sunlight rippling off of his voluminous hair. Auburn-colored and blessed with a great body of loose curls, his hair bore an aureole of gold in the sunlight. It curled with perspiration at his nape and above his ears, darker in color; his bangs were damp as well, finger-combed into a poor attempt at submission in their middle part.

His sideburns blended harshly into the beginnings of an auburn beard, this growing down the accentuated features of his jawline and cheekbones; he was tall and seemingly lean, clad in trousers, a flannel and with a backpack strapped across his back.

"Hey!" I shouted as I rolled the window down. "Are you alright?"
Even I was unsure if I meant that in terms of physical or mental health; the former was at risk in this heat, and the latter questionable for the same reason.

He turned around, slightly shook as if startled.
"Are you talking to me?!" he asked loudly, pointing a hand at himself.

"Well, do you see anyone else walking into town in this heat?!"

This elicited a chuckle. His features weren’t crystal clear from this distance, but what little I did see, proved for a handsome, if sunburned, face.
"No, I suppose not!" he shouted back.

"Do you need a ride?" I asked, which received the toot of a horn from a car somewhere behind me.

I know, I wanted to say to the driver; picking up hitchhikers on the side of the road is the stuff of horror stories. However, something inside me felt it to be more wrong to deny him the offer than to give it, so that is exactly what I did; besides, he looked to be at least a decade younger than myself, and many pounds lighter, too.

"Yes!" he said, his voice more enthusiastic.

To my words of ‘hop in, then’, he maneuvered his way across the sea of waiting cars and moved tiredly towards mine. He made his way around my car, which gave way for another, longer toot of the horn. Quickly after, he appeared at the shotgun side and I unlocked the car as he waved, then climbed in with alacrity, jumping in just before the line of cars started moving again.

When the first waft of cool air hit his face, he let out a sigh, then a small ‘oh, God’. As if having to come to his senses from it, he blinked quickly and turned to me with his hand outstretched.

"I’m Jake," he said with a smile. The line stopped again, so I had the opportunity to look him over as we shook hands; he was definitely younger than myself, but still carried some wrinkles around his blue eyes, and dark circles beneath them. His nose was what one would refer to as Greek because of its straight and narrow bridge, and his smile wide and honest.

"Nice to meet you, Jake," I said before the handshake ended, "I’m Marcus. Now, forgive my directness, but what on Earth were you doing out there?"

Jake chuckled as he settled into the passenger seat. "My friend could only drive me up to Mobile, Alabama," he said, "His boss wouldn’t give him the day off, so I decided to hitchhike the rest of the way to New Orleans."

"In this heat?" I asked as we started moving again.

"In my defense, I didn’t know that the South was this hot," he said, and his accent started making more sense. "I came down from Boston, thinking that all the heat was exaggerated; to say that I was wrong would be putting it mildly."

I chuckled. "Bet that haircut isn’t helping, either."

"Oh, I’ll be getting this mess cut as soon as I find a cheap barber in town." I noticed his gaze settle on me, then heard him take in a good breath before asking, "Got any recommendations for a barber?"

Unlike Jake and his 90s Hugh Grant hairdo, I was sporting a buzzcut: number one on the sides and back, blended into a number three on top. "Sure," I said, "You’re looking at him."

"You cut your own hair?" he asked, and I nodded.

"Started cutting it in quarantine and it stuck around: buzzcuts for the summer, crewcuts for everything else. Those aren’t the only haircuts I know how to do, though."
It became somewhat of a tradition since the pandemic: first I started cutting my own hair, then my elder sister’s husband asked if I’d cut his, too, and then his son’s; my younger sister was single, but if she weren’t, something tells me that I’d end up cutting her boyfriend’s hair, too.

Jake gave me an uh-huh sound and ran his hand through his hair with one hand as he fidgeted the fingers of his other hand around his seatbelt.

"Considering a haircut?" I asked.

"I’d love to, honestly. It’s only that I’m a little short on money at the moment, and…"

"Hey, I do all my haircuts for free," I offered. "I’m no professional, so it wouldn’t be fair to charge it; if I mess something up, you still get your money’s worth."

He laughed, then extended his hand. "Well, in that case, pen me down for one much-needed haircut."

"It’s a deal", I said, shaking his hand. "Anyway, what brings you to town?"



*


We spoke for the next hour.
Jake lost his mother to cancer some three months ago. Once he covered all the hospital and funeral expenses, he decided to pause his studies at university for as long as he could and get away from his hometown for a while. He was coming to New Orleans to work for a friend of a friend’s landscaping company both to get away from all the pain and loss, but also to make some cash.

Since he arrived two days earlier than he had planned, and since the owner of the organization would be out of town until Tuesday, I offered Jake a place to stay until he got in touch with him.

"I will only accept it if you let me pay you," he said, and I shot it down immediately.

"Don’t even think about it, kid. You’re short on money as is."

He was silent for a moment, then shot out, "Well, do you need your gutters cleaned orâ€"or your basement reorganized? Just tell me about any jobs you need done, and I’ll do it. I can’t just crash on your couch for free."

"Let’s put it this way," I said, slowly turning the car into my street. "I had a rough start, too, so at least to some extent, I know what it’s like to be where you are right now. I’ll help you out and in return, you help out somebody else when you get the chance to; that is all I ask."

I parked the car in front of my house and turned off the ignition. "And for your information, most houses in New Orleans don’t even have basements; we’re below sea level."

Jake chuckled. "Duly noted." He ran his fingers through his hair and took a small breath before he agreed at last. Silver lined his eyes as he said, "Thank you, Marcus. Truly."

"Now, help me unpack and I’ll show you where the guest bedroom is so that you can rest up a little before dinner; we’ll go out and grab a bite before we get started on that haircut."

*

Hours later, after dinner, some rest and a much-needed shower, I was setting up the home barbershop and Jake was blow-drying his hair in the bathroom.

Everything was ready for the haircut: the clippers I bought online in March 2020 were oiled up and eager to dive in, their attachments arranged in ascending order next to them, as well as scissors and a comb. I didn’t prepare a spray bottle on purpose, half in hope that he’ll let me give him a cut with the clippers only, half in anticipation of the crunch of his thick hair under the blades of the scissors if he asked for a longer cut; it’ll be a win either way.

Jake walked into the living room with his hair dry and full of volume; the auburn bangs curtained his forehead with soft arches, emerging from his widow’s peak and curving towards his temples. From there on out, the sides of his hair were shapeless and bulky, despite his best efforts to comb them into submission, and the back was no better; it was beautiful hair, but it was begging for the clippers.

He asked if I needed any help setting up the scene of the crime, and I only picked up the cape from the table and nodded towards the chair before me, to which Jake replied with a chuckle and a quick sit-down.

"Looking like a Hollywood star," I remarked as I was fastening the cape around his nape. He thanked me for the compliment and reached back with his hand to pick up the unruly strands that would’ve come into way otherwise.

I picked up the comb and started making my way through his midpart; I didn’t notice earlier that he had natural highlights, a blonde hair here and there, until my fingers were picking up the bang that had just passed through the teeth of the comb. His hair was soft and silky, sliding between my fingers seamlessly, its warm color reflecting the ceiling lights in glints of red and gold.

"Okay, chief. What style are we thinking for the haircut?"
I was running the comb through the top and then the sides as I waited for his answer; this was easily the most beautiful hair I’ve ever worked on.

"Short, definitely," he replied. "The business owner said that a short haircut would come in handy for work, and after that walk today, I see why."

"That we agree on," I put my hands on my hips. "But how short, though?"

"I guess that my only request is that you don’t shave it all off; maybe I’d be down for that sometime later, but… let’s take baby steps to the baldy cut, if you’re up for it."

We shared a quick laugh at it, then went back to pitching ideas. "How would you feel about a crewcut with a high fade? I would cut most of the hair on the sides and back to a zero, and the top would be a little longer than the rest."

I could already picture it on him; his short stubble accentuated by the stark contrast of shaved sides separating it from the circlet of short auburn hair on top, and if those cheekbones were any indicator of how good his bone structure was, it would be a criminal offense to hide it.

"That sounds good," he agreed. "I don’t think I’ve ever had a fade of any kind, so let’s give that a shot."

I clapped him on the shoulder in agreement, then picked up the clippers and fired them on. I ran my fingers through the long hair one more time, asked him if he was ready and after receiving a firm nod, went to work.

Starting at the right sideburn was a good call; the further I drove the bare clippers up his head, the more auburn hair piled up on his shoulder. I separated the top of his hair, namely, the bang, with my free hand; the long strands stuck out from between my fingers tauntingly, as if in challenge. You’re up next, I thought to myself as I wiggled my fingers gently, which resulted in his hair brushing over my knuckles.

Once I’d shaved nearly all the hair on his right side, it was confirmed that his bone structure was, indeed, that of a marble bust; the haircut would suit him perfectly. Moving to the back of his head: diving the clippers into the small, curling strands of hair at his nape and watching them pile up on the clippers, then on my hands and eventually on the floor, was a delight. As I was working my way around the thick hair, I made sure to leave his cowlick as it was for now, and took off all the rest. His hair was slowly but surely becoming a rug at my feet.

Repeating the same work on his left side rather quickly and leaving it mostly bare, it was time for the clipper attachments to come into play. For the creme de la creme in the front, I picked a number six attachment; Jake produced a small gasp as I lifted the right bang with one hand and swiftly drove the clippers into his hairline with the other.

"You okay there, buddy?"

"Yes," he said with a nervous chuckle. "It’s just that I’ve never had short hair, so that was… definitely a new sensation."

"A good one, I hope," I said with a smile, still repeating the same movement, running the clippers over the top of his head one line next to the other. The bulk of his hair was coming off in seconds, piling up in his lap and all around him.

"A great one," he concluded, picking up his shorn bangs through the cape and absent-mindedly opening and closing his fist as I finished taking off the top of his hair.

For the remainder of the haircut, I switched to shorter and shorter attachments to fade the top into the sides and back. Jake didn’t speak during this time; I caught a glimpse of his face when I was working on his temple, and found his eyes to be closed, the corner of his mouth tugged up in a relaxed smile.

Once it was over, I woke him from his trance with a heavy heart; the feelings of clippers on the scalp was a taste of heaven in its own right and I hated taking it away from him, but I wanted his opinion on the haircut. I took off the cape, dusted the short, prickly hairs off of him and watched as he ran his hand over his head in all directions.

"Oh, man," he said with a laugh, "this feels good. Is this why you keep your hair short?"

I nodded. "Once you go short, you don’t go back. Now, hop over to the bathroom to actually see the haircut."

"I’m telling you," he spoke as we walked over together, "I already love it: I’m feeling air where I never felt it before and it’s ticklish, which I love, and don’t even get me started on how good the rubbing feels…"

He went silent when he saw himself in the mirror. If his top was shorter, though not by much, he’d look like Jake Gyllenhaal in Jarhead; I wondered if he made the same connection as I watched the corner of his lips tug up in a smile.

"You’re right about never going back," he said, running his hand through his hair and chuckling. He looked down, still smiling and shook his head slightly. "How do I thank you for this, man?"


"Well, you could come back for a retouch every week or two, if you don’t mind. You have great hair to work with, and I have half a dozen different haircuts I wanna give you."

"That sounds like the deal of a lifetime," he exclaimed as he stepped into the hallway and extended his hand. "I’ll be counting on it."

"And I’ll be looking forward to it," I said, accepting his hand.

*

Two years later, Jake was still in New Orleans.

He still came over for his haircuts, and he talked about how happy he was with his life: somewhere between studying at a local university part-time and keeping his job at the same company, he’d managed to put a ring on my younger sister’s finger. It was sweet watching them fall in love, and my family all loved him from the moment they met him.

The lovebirds will be tying the knot this afternoon; as for right now, Jake was sitting in my kitchen chair, caped up and eager for his next haircut.

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