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Illustration: A pile of two notebooks. The one on top has “Birdy, 1965–1966” on the front cover.
THERE ARE TIMES in the day—typically midmorning and midafternoon—when my vision dims and flickers, and I feel like I could collapse and die, or at least collapse. I am tired. It’s hard to be an old-fashioned hairdresser, both chatterbox and confidant, when you have literally nothing to say and want only to lie down somewhere cool and silent. But then I think of my Birdy, touring the world, loath to cancel a concert, no matter the malady, and I can push past my exhaustion and get on with the task at hand.
I have one more client today, a new client named Rita. I haven’t stopped all day, not even for a cigarette out back. My colour correction for Brenda took a good two hours, and by the end of it she was crying in pain from the sting of the bleach. And there was Mrs. Miner’s perm, which came out frizzy despite several attempts to tame the frizz with various smoothing treatments. She was happy with it, which of course is the important thing. But she’s eighty-eight and only has the one eye.
I am sixty-nine. I’ve been a hairstylist for forty-three years. It’s always been slightly less than a passion, but equally, more than a chore. The work has taken its toll. My lungs are scorched from inhaling bleach and dye fumes for four decades. My head sits forward on my neck from years of leaning in to better inspect weight lines and wonky bangs. I have carpal tunnel in my right wrist. My back and feet pain me from constant standing. I am beyond burnout, which isn’t as horrible as it sounds; there are long stretches where I simply get down to the task at hand with a Zen neutrality. It’s an okay living, better than I’d hoped for when I dropped out of grade eleven to be a barfly: my boyfriend’s disability income plus my tips from the salon. Our apartment has a dishwasher and in-suite laundry, and we can usually afford to go to the casino once a month. Could be worse.
Rita arrives. She is tiny and middle aged with a pleasant, open face and huge dark eyes like Liza Minnelli’s. Her hair is slightly wavy and thin.
This is what I was hoping for,
she says, pulling a picture of Beyoncé from her purse.
I nod. One must be tactful during a consult; you never tell a new client that her hair goal is impossible.
Okay. Well. So, you’re looking for a lot of body, a lot of movement, and a very warm blond. That can absolutely work. Your hair is very straight and fine, so I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to exactly reproduce the picture. Have you considered extensions?
Extensions. You mean, like, bits of fake hair?
Yes. Although it’s real human hair.
No. My daughter tried those, and they always looked so ratty and cheap, even when they were first put in. I’m very much a wash-and-go person, you know?
Absolutely. I do need to tell you that the style you want would involve a fair bit of maintenance. Blow-drying is essential. The right sequence of products is essential also.
She sighs, annoyed. Okay. Just do the best you can. Do whatever you need to do. My daughter’s getting married this weekend.
I sit her in my chair. We are alone in the salon; the other stylists are young and haven’t yet built the client base that I have. I’ve moved from salon to salon over the years, and my regulars follow me, even now that I’m way in the north end of Winnipeg. Women hug me, invite me to dinner, weep over their incarcerated children, ask me to look at the rash underneath one of their breasts. Against the odds, I’ve made a name. My name is Roland. I’ve always hated my name.
I fit the cape around her neck.
Let’s give you a wash first.
No, that’s all right. I don’t like the sensation of someone washing my hair.
Okay. No problem.
Who doesn’t like a nice head massage? I am struck by this woman’s strange bearing, which is hunched and defensive, as though she doesn’t trust gravity to keep her upright.
I wet her hair and go to the back to mix bleach. It’s ten after four. Tony will be on the couch, smoking a joint and watching General Hospital. He said he was going to try to go to Canadian Tire for new torches for the balcony, but his fibro has been so bad this week, he likely didn’t make it out the door.
What’s that smell?
asks Rita when I return to my station.
What smell, honey? My smeller’s wrecked from all the bleach.
There’s a smell coming from somewhere. A smell like someone has … had a bowel movement.
Really? Huh. I’m sorry. I’m not sure where that could be coming from. I’ll spray some Lysol.
No, don’t! I’m allergic to air freshener. I’ll just have to put up with the bathroom smell.
I’m really sorry.
I section her hair with clips and start to paint it with the bleach. It’s always a challenge starting a rapport with a new client. I have my affable salon persona, calling people honey
in a benign, chummy way, but I’m really very shy. And tired. I think I mentioned that already.
Do you live in the area?
I ask.
Sort of.
That’s interesting. I like this neighbourhood. I know everyone says it’s a bit dangerous in the north end, but I haven’t found that at all. Well, there was that family reunion last year where everyone shot everyone, but otherwise …
I was at that reunion. That was my family.
No! Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so glad you’re okay.
Thank you. I’m not okay, truth be told. But I’ve coped better than my sisters. They’re both on Ativan. Gertie has an emotional support dog. And not a very good one. It bites her and pulls her into traffic.
Where do you go from there? I work in silence, mortified. When I’m done with the bleach I mull over putting her under the rotating heat-circle thing, this newfangled appliance that the owner just acquired but that I have my doubts about. I decide against it. Thin hair like hers will almost certainly break if heat is applied. I tell her I’m going to let the bleach develop and nip out the back for a cigarette.
There is a yellow cat on the stoop. It hisses and bolts when it sees me.
Could you imagine being at a nice family reunion only for it to end in gunfire? Awful. No wonder her sisters are on drugs. I would be too. And I’m already deep into the booze as is. Birdy O’Day has been very public about his struggles with prescription medication and has been to rehab three times, most recently in 2014. He went to Betty Ford. Or Promises. It’s one of those—I can’t remember, which is strange for me. I know everything there is to know about Birdy O’Day.
Date of birth? May 5, 1955. Star sign? Taurus. Biggest hit in America? Yes,
number two in 1978. Biggest flop in America? Everything he released after 1991; his last song to chart on the Billboard Hot 100 was Fun and Then Some
at number eighty-three in February 1991.
Stop it,
I say aloud. If I’m not careful I could get irretrievably lost in Birdy trivia.
I step on my cigarette butt. Things could absolutely be worse, I constantly remind myself. I’m prone to wildly uncomfortable bouts of jealousy: I’m jealous of other, more successful stylists, and I’m jealous whenever I’m out socially with Tony and people cruise him but not me, and naturally, I’m jealous of my best friend from childhood, who left me in the dust to become Birdy O’Day, rich and famous pop music legend. I snap the rubber band I keep on my wrist and say, No! I’m alive, after thirty-eight years with HIV, and I have Tony, even though we bicker constantly and sometimes look at each other with such resentment and exhaustion that it’s a wonder we’re still together. But Winnipeg is small. There’s no playing the field, because there is no field.
I go back to my client.
Ooh, yes,
I say, studying her head. You’re lifting nicely.
Did you just have a cigarette?
I did. I’m sorry. I know it’s a revolting habit.
Cigarette smoke is another one of the smells I have a hard time with. Would it be okay if you don’t smoke?
For sure, yes. I can go for hours without one. I guess we all cope in different ways.
Rita is silent. I finish with the bleach. I tone her to a pretty honey colour. I set about trying to animate her lifeless hair. I snip and tease and backcomb it for nearly an hour, smiling widely to allay her obvious concern. When I finally concede defeat and put down my comb and scissors, she looks like she’s wearing a fun-fur toilet lid cover on her head.
Wait,
she says. "That cannot be the finished product."
I really did struggle to create the shape you wanted.
She puts a hand over her mouth.
I look crazy. I look like I live in a ravine.
This is for sure fixable. I’d suggest that we go back to your natural colour.
But this is my wedding hair. I wanted it like the picture.
I understand. I did warn you that it might be difficult to achieve that look, given your hair type.
No. No, no, no. You’ve destroyed my hair. I’m not paying for this!
You will need to pay for services rendered. Like I said, I’m more than happy to return your hair to its original state.
She stands, grabs her purse off the counter. No. I refuse.
Ma’am, you still need to pay.
Why? I asked for a service that I did not receive.
And I offered you colour correction. I did tell you to temper your expectations. Truthfully, Beyoncé is probably wearing a wig in the picture you showed me. Maybe you could consider a wig.
A wig? I’ve spent two hours in your chair and now you’re telling me to buy a wig? Wow. I’m mother of the bride and you want me to buy some sh*tty wig that comes in a bag at a costume store?
I want to spray the place with gasoline and light a match. There is a wonderful high-end wig store on Corydon. You’d be surprised. The wig industry has come a long way. The Raquel Welch line of wigs is—
I don’t want to talk about the f*cking wig industry. I’m not going to my daughter’s wedding looking like a cancer patient. I’m not paying for this.
I understand. But please know that you will be barred for life, unfortunately.
Good!
She stomps out. The door chimes go chiming.
I exhale hard. A run-in like this happens maybe once every other year. There was a time when I’d have been able to shake it off, but my nerves are shot now. I lock the door. I ponder retirement, as I do almost every day. But a pauper doesn’t get to retire. I’ll die here at the salon, scissors in hand.
I TAKE THE BUS to Club 200, the only gay bar left in the city. There used to be a thriving scene: Gio’s, Happenings, Club Desire. But the young queers don’t need bars anymore; they have their phones, and they’re spooked by old-school social interaction. I still need a bar. A beer among old acquaintances still nourishes me.
When I arrive, there’s only Jean, eating a Reuben and drinking a 50. Jean is my age; she’s battled various cancers for twenty-five years. Everyone loves Jean. She’s grizzled but thoughtful.
Roland. Was thinking of you the other day. How’s Tony?
Oh, you know. He has bad days. We’re gonna go to the casino this weekend. That always perks him up.
So, I seen Marvin on the street the other day. That young boyfriend of his run off with all of Marvin’s fur coats.
No way. sh*t. Marvin loves his fur coats. I never liked that kid. He made AIDS jokes. Idiot. Hopefully they’ll catch him.
Jean nods, distracted by her sandwich. I stare absently at the movie on the big screen by the VLT machine. Bette Midler is running down a hallway in a black wig.
I get another beer. Jean leaves. Some guy in dirty overalls comes in to use the washroom.
I have another beer. The day’s chaos recedes, and my sore shoulders return to their normal position. I love beer. It has magical properties, as long as you know when to say when. I have one more. The cute ginger who works at Sephora comes in. I smile and wave. The cute guy smiles and moves to the other end of the bar. The downside of beer is that it sometimes makes me forget I’m no longer young, and I embarrass myself by flirting with young men who clearly aren’t interested.
I walk home. It’s a warm, breezy evening. I think of Marvin and his stolen furs. Some of them were kind of ratty looking, but others were very nice. Marvin even has a walk-in fridge that he stores his fur coats in. His obsession has sometimes bordered on the absurd; it’s not uncommon to see him in full-length fox in the middle of a heat wave. I try to think whether I have a comparable obsession, but all I can come up with is my obsession for the past: my mother’s honeyed smell and fun times with my best friend Birdy, our avowals of love and devotion, our defiance in the face of so much hatred, until Birdy ran off to become who he needed to be, and I faltered and became for a time—yes, I can admit it now—trash.
The elevator is still broken when I get home. I slowly make my way up the six flights, gasping, pausing often. When I get to my floor I can hear our television blaring at the other end of the hall. Tony always blasts the television, despite having perfect hearing. Drives me crazy.
I open the door to a fog of marijuana. Tony is splayed out on the sectional. He offers a half nod as greeting.
Hey. Could you turn the TV down a bit, Tony?
Yer drunk.
I am not. I had three beer at the club. It was really stressful at work today.
There’s beer in the fridge. Would’ve been nice if you’d come home and spent time with me.
I know. I’m sorry. I just needed to sit by myself for a bit. Work was hell.
Queen, please.
Tony is hopelessly masculine, his speaking voice croaky and his diction staccato, and when he attempts to talk in gay patois he sounds like Sylvester Stallone doing a cold read of The Boys in the Band. I still find it endearing.
What does that mean? Are you saying my job can’t be stressful?
Tony pets Linda, our elderly cat. "I’m saying that if you spent a day in my shoes—not that I can wear shoes anymore—then you’d know stressful. It took me five minutes to lower myself onto the crapper today, and I was still crying out in pain."
Have you taken your pills?
Yes, I’ve taken my f*ckin’ pills. Don’t I always? They barely touch the pain. I’m gonna have to go back to Dr. Eadie. I need a higher dose.
Tony’s already on a shockingly high dose of hydromorphone. Whenever he ups his dose he’s stuporous and prone to falls, and I have to pay the woman next door to sit with him while I’m at work.
What about you?
he asks. Have you taken your pills?
Always. Come on. You know that. Have you eaten?
I got McDonald’s from Skip.
Oh, Tony. That’s not a real dinner. I’ll make you some spaghetti.
No, I’m full.
I sigh and plop down next to him. I can’t eat either. My guts are still in knots.
What happened? Was it too busy?
Some woman wanted to look like Beyoncé even though she only had three strands of hair. And it came out horribly, like I knew it would. I told her to maybe consider a wig, and she flipped out and left without paying.
But wigs have come so far in the last few years, I thought.
That’s what I said. She wouldn’t hear of it.
What a bitch. You’re too good for that salon. You should have your own place again.
I chuckle. I had my own salon once. Keener and Company, right on Portage. We did really well, but I found it so stressful that I started drinking at work. It got ugly. There was a staff walkout. At the end it was just me and Florence, a junior stylist so uncertain of her skills (I can do this, I’m sure I can do this,
she’d say to herself during a simple wash and set) that she also started drinking at work, and walk-ins would find us lying on the floor or dirty dancing. Tony was still working construction then; he came by one afternoon to take me to lunch, and I was already hammered. You’re Tony, and my name is Ida,
I remember saying before I blacked out. I closed the place for good two days later.
I can’t ever retire, Tony. Never. We have no savings, sh*t credit. What are we going to do?
We’ll figure it out. When my dad goes, I’ll get some money. We’ll figure it out. Did you see the paper today?
The paper? Like, the newspaper? We don’t get the newspaper.
"Yeah, there was a Free Press in the hallway, so I took it. Anyways, there was a big write-up about Birdy. He’s doing some shows at the concert hall."
Birdy? Really?
My heart leaps. But he’s never played Winnipeg. He swore he wouldn’t when he left. And he doesn’t have a record out. What could he be promoting?
f*ck if I know. I didn’t read it all. Go look. It’s on the kitchen table.
I rise and walk to the newspaper on the table. My heart leaps again; even though I keep a scrapbook of every press clipping, every advertisem*nt, I do so with a mixture of pride and despair. Birdy O’Day, my best friend from grade school, so blazingly gifted in so many ways, now a pop music legend who hasn’t spoken to me for fifty-odd years despite my letters and emails and flowers when he won his Grammy in 1979, has been my neurotic hobby since forever. When I’m washing my brushes at work, I think of Birdy cavorting in his infinity pool in Malibu. When I’m struggling to make love with Tony, who is also giving his all despite the pain of my body atop his, I think of Birdy, cooing astride his current lover. I still measure my life against his, which is silly and pointless, but there you go.
Tony fires up another joint. How come he hasn’t come out? Is he ashamed of it?
I roll my eyes as I flip through the entertainment section of the paper. "How many times do we have to have this conversation? He’s not ashamed of it. He’s just living his life. People aren’t obligated to come out if they don’t want to. It’s not like he’s getting away with something, Tony. He’s busy being a brilliant recording artist. Gosh, be an ally!"
I am an ally! I’m an ally up the arse and out again, so don’t hand me that. I’m just saying, he’s so famous. And so mainstream—my grandma had his records. We all watched his Christmas special on CBC. He’d be such an inspiration if he came out.
He already is an inspiration. I’m sorry, I can’t have a conversation until I’ve seen the article and put it in my scrapbook.
I find the article. Legendary Songbird Flies Home.
There’s a big glamour photo of him, one I haven’t seen before. He’s leaning on an elbow, with his platinum hair windblown. There’s not a line on his face. His nose has been whittled down through the years so that now it resembles a discrete peak of meringue. And he’s had a couple facelifts, but he doesn’t look pulled at all. He is as beautiful as he’s ever been, at least in this picture.
I’ll be right back,
I say.
Hurry and put it in your scrapbook,
says Tony with affection. You’re so goofy.
"I’VE NEVER BEEN more excited about a performance as I am about this one, he says, with his trademark breathiness, from his home in California.
I only hope that my Winnipeg fans can forgive me for being away so long."
If only because his homecoming concert seems to signal a reckoning with his past, I have to ask him the question: will he finally acknowledge the open secret of his hom*osexuality?
He laughs his breathy laugh. Oh, you! I’m sure there will be a surprise or two during the concerts. I’m so excited. It’s really just so exciting. The rehearsals have been dreamy—all we do is laugh! It’s hard to get any work done, because we’re all laughing so hard! I don’t know why, but I love it. Oh! There’s someone at the door. Thank you for talking with me. I’ll remember it forever.
He’s so full of sh*t. I miss his bullsh*t. He wasn’t always quite the bullsh*t artist he is now, certainly not when we were kids. But there was definitely some bullsh*t back then too. We came up hard, in a hard city. Birdy’s bullsh*t was protective, protective and provocative at once. I maybe would’ve fared better if I’d also possessed a bit of Birdy’s bullsh*t when we were growing up.
I Meet Birdy
Illustration: A pair of glasses.
MY MOTHER AND I were on the bus home from downtown. We’d been shopping for back-to-school clothes. I was seven. My mother, Margaret, in her granny glasses, taupe house dress, and comfortable, ugly Hush Puppies, was twenty-three and already girded by the austerity and stern logic with which she would live the rest of her life.
"Mom, what does husky mean? The man at the clothing store had looked me up and down with frustration and said,
He’s really gotten quite husky, hasn’t he?"
It means that you’re fat, despite my best efforts. The rapist was overweight too, so it’s to be expected. Don’t obsess over it. We’ll get it under control eventually.
From the time that I could first comprehend speech, I have known that I am the product of rape, that a man in a parkade pulled my mother into a truck and raped her. She was sixteen, in love with Jesus, planning to enter the convent the day after graduation. But she was raped, fell pregnant, was thrown out of the house when she refused to go into hiding and then surrender the baby. She got a job as a night janitor in office building, finished high school, and enrolled in college to become a pharmacist.
Margaret was the most dogged, unflappable person I will ever know. Betrayed by Christ and her own family, she didn’t believe in innocence, or sentiment, or Christmas.
We rode past a burning house, several blank billboards, and people asleep on the sidewalk. On the bus, there was the sound of the bus and nothing else.
How come we have to take the bus?
I asked. Why don’t we have a car?
Don’t be cloying, Roland. You know that a car isn’t in the budget. Be grateful that I sleep on the couch so you can have your own room.
I leaned my head against my mother’s arm. She stiffened.
Sit up. It’s far too warm for contact. You’re very sticky. Dan is bringing us dinner tonight, so there’ll be no snacking when we get home.
Dan was Margaret’s boyfriend; they were both in their last year of pharmacy school. He was tall and skinny. He was nice but boring.
Dan is nice, but he’s so boring.
I know, but he’s very stable, and he’s brought out the woman in me, which I thought was lost forever.
I didn’t know what she meant by this. I pictured a strange miniature lady popping out of my mother’s mouth, like a cuckoo from a clock. But I was used to listening blankly as Margaret mused on the subtleties of her existence.
ONCE HOME MARGARET ordered me to put away my new clothes in their proper dresser drawers. As I folded them and put them away I was reminded of how much I hated my new clothes, all of them muddy browns and greys and rough to the touch. I thought how nice it would be to wear pants made of slippery satin, like the fabric at the edges of the blanket on my bed.
I looked at the only picture in my bedroom: Dumbo, smiling delightedly in a co*cked yellow cap. Dumbo’s easy joy was out of place in the apartment, which was dark, all thick black drapes and crammed bookcases. There was no television, no record player, nothing quaint or cozy. The salt and pepper shakers were shaped like salt and pepper shakers, not anything fun like corncobs or smiling fish. The wallpaper was as plain as blank newsprint. For a time there were placemats covered in daisies on the kitchen table, but my mother threw them away.
I returned to the living room. Margaret was sitting on the couch, reading. I was still energized from the trip downtown, and I stood beside my mother, bouncing in place.
Could you please stop bouncing. And could you also not breathe through your mouth like that.
Do you want to play Go Fish?
I’m reading. Why don’t you settle in with a book.
Don’t feel like it. Tell me about when I was a baby.
Roland, I am not a jukebox. I’ve told you that story a hundred times.
Okay. Sorry.
She sighed, softening, and put down the book.
You were an uncommonly beautiful baby. Eyes big as dinner plates, lashes so lush they could’ve been made of mink. Perfectly formed everything. You were a perfect pod of a baby. The nurses couldn’t stop gushing. One of them came up close to me and whispered that she’d pay to adopt you.
You never said about that part before!
She folded her upper lip over her teeth, her version of laughter. I was tempted. Well, not really, although god knows I needed the money. But in the end, I didn’t have the heart to part with you.
I knelt on the floor beside her. Because you loved me so much. Because you loved me so much, right?
Well, of course. Don’t be maudlin. Anyway, that’s all I can recall.
What about the part where you were giving me a bath and you had a picture of how I was going to be when I grow up?
I don’t remember that. Oh, wait. Yes, it flashed through my mind that you were destined for a life of public service.
What does that mean again?
Public service? As in helping the poor, possibly even going into some form of health care.
Oh!
I burst into laughter. I was mostly a placid kid, but I was also thrilled to exist—typical for a tyke but also probably because my mother repeatedly mentioned that, had I been born to any other teenage girl, I would’ve been aborted. I ran my cheek along the bald upholstery of the couch cushion. I was deeply in love with all sensory input. The sound of a car engine struggling to start. The musty smell from the closet in the hallway. I also liked the sound of my own voice, and while Margaret could mostly manage to just let me prattle, sometimes she’d snap: If you don’t stop talking right now I am going to die!
What else went through your mind?
Nothing. Nothing else went through my—
A knock at the door.
That’s Dan. Now, don’t be a pest, and if he’s brought something yummy for dinner, just know that I will be watching your intake. Each and every bite. We have to counteract the genes of the rapist.
There was Dan, with a pizza and something in a covered dish. He gave Margaret the awkward peck on the cheek he always gave her in greeting, and he patted me on the head.
I’m sorry I’m late. Am I late? I had a protracted phone call with my father. He’s buying a vacant building on Smith and wanted my advice.
Are you versed in real estate?
asked Margaret.
Not at all. I think he just likes the sound of my voice when he’s worked up about something.
Your voice is very calming.
They embraced, two nerds trying to be sensuous. I pretended that I was a tree until they finished.
"ARE YOU EXCITED about grade one?" Dan asked me as we ate. My mouth was full, so I waited to reply. Talking with your mouth full was the most disgusting thing in the world, according to Margaret.
"Grade two, I said at last, slightly snooty.
I’m at a new school this year."
Ah. That can be nerve-racking. I’m sure you’ll fit right in. You’re a charming young man.
Even then, I knew empty flattery when I heard it. I was not a charming young man. In grade one, at the old school, I’d had only one friend, a girl named Tanya who threw up several times a day for no reason. Kids said that I was spooky as a ghost because of my pallor and vacant face and that I used big words because I was from Russia, which I puzzled over endlessly until finally telling Margaret what they’d said. She always enjoyed a good non sequitur and did her lip-over-the-teeth laugh. Russia! Why on earth would they—see, this is what enjoy about having a child. The strangeness.
I remember searching her face for reassurance that I wasn’t some
