Gus is looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He’s paying more attention to me than his customer, but she, in turn, is too busy playing a game on her phone to notice.
‘Ever cut anyone’s ear off?’ I ask.
‘Only once,’ says Gus.
My client’s reflection stares at me, wide-eyed.
‘So?’ says Gus. ‘How was the date?’
Now both customers and Gus are looking at me, waiting for an answer.
‘Well?’ says the girl with the phone.
I nod, smile.
‘Sweet,’ says Gus. ‘Seeing her again?’
And my smile vanishes.
Gus shrugs. ‘You gotta do, what you gotta do.’
‘Men,’ says the girl, turning back to her phone.
‘So,’ says Gus, ‘I guess that means you’re not busy tonight?’
‘Well, I dunno, I mean . . .’
‘Don’t fight it,’ says Gus.
‘It’s just . . . it’s not really my thing.’
‘It’s everyone’s thing, Henriqué.’
We have beanbags and blankets.
‘Everybody comfortable?’ says Gus, affecting something of the hypnotist’s lilt.
The room above The Hairy Krishna is thick with incense and dim with flickering candlelight, the sound of waves and harmonic chimes plays on the speakers, and the beanbag is very plump. But I wouldn’t say I’m comfortable. Besides cutting hair, Gus runs a once-weekly meditation group. From what he’s told me, the hour-long sessions draw on a range of half-understood principles gleaned from Buddhism, late night TV and a yoga teacher with whom Gus once had a fling. There are five of us lying cushioned and cocooned on the floor; a big turnout for Gus’s ‘Tune Out Tuesdays’.
‘We’re going to slow it down,’ says Gus, doing exactly that with his annunciation, which has more of a comic than a relaxing effect. ‘Relax your toes . . . are your toes relaxed?’
‘Uh hmm . . .’ say several disembodied voices.
‘Henriqué, are your little piggies relaxed?’
‘Yes, I mean, Ah huhh . . .’
‘Goooood. Now your ankles.’
And knees, thighs, bums (‘Is your rump relaxed, Henroldo?’), tummies, arms, hands, fingers, necks and faces. And yes, I do relax; not as much as I might without Gus’s diverting commentary, but I relax.
‘Now for the noodle,’ drawls Gus. ‘If there’s something on your mind, something weighing you down . . . Henry . . . bring it into your consciousness now.’
Zoe. Zoe’s face looking at mine while I cut her hair. Zoe’s heavy smile. Zoe travelling.
‘Are we there?’ intones Gus.
‘Hmm hmm . . .’
‘Now visualize a balloooon, any colour, just needs to be a ballooooon.’
‘Ya hmm . . .’
‘And attach that heavy thinking to your balloon. Mine’s a red one. And let your balloon float that funk away.’
We are silent for a minute. My balloon floats away, Zoe clinging to its trailing string. And I don’t want it to float away. I reach for Zoe’s hand and pull her back towards me.
‘How we doing, everyone? Have we floated our funk?’
‘Ahh hmmm . . .’
‘Henriqué?’
‘Nuh huhh . . .’
‘Gooood.’