Officer Lesser

Hair salons: the undeniable axis of good.

Officer Lesser

By Stacey Morris

There I was on a recent Saturday afternoon, sitting on a sun-drenched bench outside a hair salon waiting to be called in for my appointment. It was a bench built for two, but with no one in sight, I put my massive backpack beside me and looked up at the blue sky. Suddenly, a man with a shock of white, Cesar Romero-style hair exited the salon. He and his wife were both newly coiffed and looked like a pair of elegant grandparents on their way to a wedding or birthday celebration. They stood nearby murmuring and I cast my gaze elsewhere to give them privacy. When I looked back in their direction he was standing alone, then gingerly took a few steps away from the door, limping slightly.  

“Would you like a seat? I asked him.  

“No, I’ll sit over here,” he answered, pointing to a nearby bench.  

As I continued waiting, I reflected on the morning spent at the computer, writing. Or should I say, purging…childhood imprints and incidents stemming from emotionally distant parents who didn’t, by a long shot, meet my needs as I grew (and in some cases, careened) into adulthood. Not a new endeavor for me, given my past demons, but should I, at this late stage of life, still be dwelling on it? Autoimmune disease and its various sub-diagnoses said yes. If psychologists with a spiritual bent were to be believed, all disease begins with an emotional root. So, I pressed on with the excavating and assessing of new ancient memories that had been surfacing with a vengeance for the past year, wearing a figurative miner’s hat with an unsparingly bright searchlight, which was most helpful with uncovering pieces to the fragmented puzzle of my self-worth. Sometimes I couldn’t help but wonder...at age 59, do I still need to be writing about the stuff I began digging into in 1985? 

There had to be some validity as to how early imprints and being treated by one’s parents influence the life path of their offspring. What are the odds of four out of four kids never marrying or having children? I don’t know of many similar denouements, though I did limp into the marital harbor in my fifties. And that was only after decades of rigorous healing work. I busted through the low ceiling set by our parents through unpleasant rounds of therapy, absorbing the messages of self-help books; and regular attendance at 12-step meetings, where I sat in circles of fellow soldiers, alternately sobbing and listening. And there were deep dives into spiritual practices (rooted in everything from Christian Science and Huna to Kundalini Yoga) which strengthen and enrich me to this day.  I sometimes joke that I dropped out of Columbia University, not because of feeling intellectually inferior (though sometimes I did, especially my first semester) but because I was so immersed in the avocation of recovery.  

Suddenly, the man with the beautiful wavy white hair was standing in front of me, eating a cream-filled donut. “It’s my half-birthday,” he said, keeping an inscrutable poker face. “How old do you think I am?”  

“Mmmm – 55?”  

“Add thirty years!” 

“Well, happy half-birthday – and may I say, you don’t look it at all.” 

He explained he was waiting for his wife to retrieve him, and that they’d been coming to this salon for 20 years. 

“And I’ve been retired for 43,” he said, scanning his cell phone until he found what he was searching for, handing it to me for a look. There he was, Officer Lesser, NYPD, circa 1978, this time with a full head of dark wavy hair and a slight smile. 

“I delivered 15 babies on my beat,” he reported. “I worked in poor neighborhoods and the clinics wouldn’t send women to the hospital until their water broke.” 

He looked my way only occasionally. Most of the time Officer Lesser’s eyes darted to various parts of the vast, bustling parking lot. Intrigued, I asked a few questions about what the streets of New York were like in the 70’s, and noted what a great city it was in the 80’s, when I lived there as a college student. 

“I’m listening to you, but I’m watching out for my wife,” he said, as he scanned the lot. “But really, I always do this; it’s a habit from the job.” He scrolled his phone again and showed a family photo of a wedding. “Four daughters and one son…all married.” 

Then he looked a little more closely at me.  

“Do you have small children?” 

I was flabbergasted and flattered he thought that might be the case, since I’m only a year off 60.  

“I don’t, but we do have a one-year-old granddaughter.” 

He didn’t seem interested in that and continued.  

“When my kids were little, I read a psychology book on how to raise kids,” he recalled. “Did you know that the parents are 100% responsible for a child’s self-esteem?” His voice had risen to an impassioned shout.  

“I did sort of suspect that,” I replied dryly.  

“This book told me you’re supposed to say these three things when your kid has done something good,” he said, raising a finger in the air for the recitation of No. 1.  

“Ruth, you should be very proud of yourself!

Number two: You did a great job!

And number three: Mommy and daddy are proud of you, too!”

By this time, Officer Lesser had turned to face me and was leaning over slightly in an effort to get more to eye level. 

“That’s what you’re supposed to say to your kids.”  

Suddenly, he shuffled forward, limping towards the SUV idling at the curb. 

“It was great talking with you,” I called out.  

“Same here.” 

I sat in disbelief that such a resonant message was plunked in my lap – affirming what I had, hours earlier, been in conflict over. The three things my parents never told me were the three things I and every child need to hear during those crucial years of impressionable tenderness. Our conversation was brief but unforgettable. My instincts were correct after all: the time for writing about my past was at hand. There was work to do and I needed to believe in it - and myself.

The next thing I knew, the receptionist was sticking her head out the salon’s front door, calling my name. It was my turn.

Out with the old, I thought, stepping through the door.