Hair was still one of the most important canvases of fashion, and in order to be convincing, I needed an authentic haircut. I got to a pay phone and called the Astor Place Hair Cutters; that was the haircut place. A couple of years ago, the Astor Place Hair Cutters was just a couple of older barbers going out of business like most other old-fashioned barbers, but apparently one of them snapped his fingers one morning and learned how to pander to the fashions. Some guy on the phone said they had an hour’s waiting time. It was too long.

I walked around the area until I passed one salon, which had a sign in the window. It read, “Special, this week only, $25 for any fashion plus a free nipple piercing!” The walls of the place were lined with posters of punks, and all the barbers were ambisexual punks. Squeamishly I rubbed my chest and entered. Until now, I had only patronized the barber college on the Bowery where a haircut cost only three bucks. I put haircutting on the same parallel as fingernail clipping and tooth brushing. Twenty-five-buck haircuts seemed ludicrous, but I rationalized it as down payment for Sergei’s apartment. I chose the flashiest barber, a guy who had the colors of the spectrum running down his mohawk and, sitting in his chair, I nervously asked him for his most daring concept.

“Daring concept?” he asked. “Heel and sit.”

“I’m just a bit nervous,” I confessed. He leaned the chair back and fitted my head into a sink. He shampooed my hair, wrapped it in a towel, patted it dry, and then started clipping. Initially I watched him in the mirror, but after a while, I couldn’t bear it. I looked away at the shelf where he kept all his accessories. After about ten minutes, he started up his blow drier. Fashion, which I had neglected so long, was finally taking revenge on me.

“Finished,” he finally said. “Now remove your shirt for the piercing.”

It could have been worse. I looked like Billy Idol. My hair stood on end, electroshock style. All that junk he kept pouring into my scalp was peroxide. I was bleachy blond.

“Divine, no?” He displayed me to the other hair virtuoso who, due to the absence of any other clients, inspected.

“What about the nipple piercing? It comes free.” With a tiny, long acupuncture-type needle he pointed to some kind of local anesthesia.

“No, thanks.”

“How about a nose piercing?” He wanted to stab some part of my flesh. An ear piercing, I thought, would erase any final doubts Sergei might have in his terrified little mind. A dangling earring would be a banner of my fashion-at-all-expense attitude. “How about an ear pierce?”

“Fine.”

“I’d like it done with a new needle,” I requested.

“Course.”

After the stylist numbed my ear, he took the needle to my lobe. I closed my eyes, bit my cheek and while counting to ten, felt a pinch. Then I opened my eyes again. He was swabbing away a drop of blood.

“We have a little training post. But what I want you to do, is clean your lobe tonight with soap and water.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I swear,” I assured him. I then put twenty-five bucks in his hand and picked up my bags.

“I accept tips you know,” he said.

I gave him a dollar and left. I felt the tiny gold drop in my lobe and, passing by a cheap jewelry joint, I bought an earcuff from an Indian salesman. While trailing back to the hotel, I was aware of someone walking behind me staring. I blushed so hard that I felt feverish. Dashing into a department store, I bought a pair of sunglasses. When I went to the cash register to pay, I noticed a bunch of preteen girls giving me the eye. One of them finally said, “Hi there.”

I wasn’t sure if they felt my androgynous look was free of sexual threat, or if they regarded me as a child might regard a clown. I silently paid and left.

When I finally got back to the hotel, I asked the desk clerk for my key. His eyes widened and, he asked, “What the fuck happened to you?”

“How do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he replied, retrieving my key. I indignantly grabbed the key and went up to my room, where I put on all the clothes and accessories. It was eleven o’clock. The trip downtown by cab would take no more than ten minutes. For about a half hour all I could do was stare gloomily at my new self in the bathroom mirror.

Finally, after my brooding fit, I went outside. A thrift store was across the street, so I popped in and purchased a cheap and heavy army coat that draped down to my knees. I also bought a black knit beanie that I could tug over my disastrous head and pierced earlobe. All that, with the sunglasses, erased all identity. The salesgirl shoved everything into a Unique shopping bag, where I also shoved my former clothes. I then hailed a cab and was let off at Great Jones and Broadway.

Before entering Caramba’s, I noticed a black-stencilled message; it read: “People starve on this block.” At the rear of the place, past all the yuppies around the bar, Marty and the director were seated, sipping aperitifs. The great director didn’t bat a lash at my get-up. Apparently he expected it, but I could see Marty gently bite his bottom lip.

“Enchanted,” I said, softly shaking the tips of Sergei’s fingers. I didn’t recognize him. I took a seat, shoved the Unique shopping bag under the table, and plopped a cloth napkin on my lap. “I’m famished.”

“This is Sergei Ternevsky” Marty said, finally unveiling his last name, and allowed a pause for appreciation. I vaguely recalled drunkenly watching an experimental film that had showed one midnight at the Saint Mark’s Cinema. It was a dumb satire about tools.

“As I suspected. I’ve seen your films and may I say that it is hard to imagine what cinema would be, were it not for your contribution.”

“Moving along,” Marty commenced. “Sergei would like to know something about your background.”

“Well, it’s probably going to bore you to tears. I was raised in Queens, the only son in a Jewish household. A passive father, and a domineering mother. After high school, I got accepted to the Fashion Institute, you know, FIT on Twenty-seventh? And well, here I am.”

“What became of your last residence?” Ternevsky asked.

“It was a sub-sub-sublease that sunk. Currently I’m back with the folks.”

Then a tenacious silence leapt on us like a hedgehog and gnawed away. They both just looked at me. I felt a gathering tautness, so I took the presumptions, “I came to terms with my sexuality at a relatively young age.”

“I have no interest in that,” Ternevsky replied, and then he added, “You say you’ve seen my films. Which ones exactly?”

“Well, I’ve always worshiped Phillips and Flatedges.” This was the boring experimental film I’d sat through. It was done in the sixties and parodied documentaries. It was a history of the screwdriver.

“Sergei’s in production on something similar currently,” Marty mentioned.

“No, really!”

“It’s an attempt to bring philosophy to the screen,” Marty explained.

I nodded enthusiastically. I was about to say something like, “Bringing philosophy to the screen is a good thing,” but decided against it.

The waitress came and put down hors d’oeuvres, a big bowl of chili with tortilla chips and virgin margaritas. Apparently Ternevsky had already ordered for all. It was while both Marty and I were munching away that Ternevsky to launch into his great soliloquy, a monologue that said little other than he was skillfully modest and modestly skilled. Occasionally his pet, Marty, would lick his hand with some compliment. He talked about others in Hollywood like Steven Spielberg who had benefited from his experiments in technique. Money was reserved for the quick and greedy, but history holds all the real laurels. Soon he brought his conversation around to the abode.

“It’s kind of a private museum,” he explained, “furnished with personal relics. All I’m going to ask is a mere one hundred dollars a month, a courtesy fee. But I won’t be shy about one demand.” His face tensed and he leaned over his chair toward me. “I don’t want it to be a hangout, do you understand? This isn’t some fuck pad for you and your friends. If I find anyone up there other than you, you’re out, understand?” It was clear.