The Haircut

By Salvatore Difalco

Photograph by Salvatore Difalco

It’s Saturday morning. Mario Palmeri’s going to lose his lid. I mean, he’s heading down to Tony’s Barbershop on College Street and getting a trim because he’s starting to look like a Sicilian Harpo Marx.

The other fellas have been busting his balls all morning about being seen last night at Bar Italia with the blonde giantess, Gerlinde Rossi, a Swiss import to the neighborhood who speaks five languages and can probably beat Mario in an arm wrestle or maybe even a toe-to-toe.

“Was Brunnhilde gentle with you, Mario?” quips Peter P, feeling pretty good about himself and his mullet, though one has to wonder why.

“At least I was with a woman last night,” Mario shoots back.

“Yeah, I guess she can pass for one,” Peter chortles.

The other fellas laugh. Johnny Garcia asks who Brunnhilde is.

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter says, “Mario knows. He swapped spit with her last night. Did you have to stand on a box or a stool?”

Laughter erupts, prolonged, raucous, perhaps played up to further humble Mario, who, as the resident neighborhood braggadocio, likes to boast about and exaggerate his conquests. Thus far, he has remained reticent about Gerlinde, unleashing a revolving door of comic slurs and absurd conjecture.

“Let me go get my haircut, you morons,” Mario says.

“Nobody’s holding you back,” Sam Natural says.

The others grunt in agreement.

“Did she pull your hair when you made love, Mario?” Peter P asks, barely containing his laughter.

“Tell me she pulled your hair. Guys, she pulled his hair. He loves that shit.”

The others laugh in a swell that subsides after a moment. Mario finally leaves hands in pockets, shaking his fuzzy head and cursing his heartless crew.  

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Salvatore Difalco