Free Celebrity Chekhov by Ben Greenman Page B

son!” he says to the barber, who is absorbed in tidying up.
    They shake hands. Billy Ray Cyrus drags his scarf off his head and sits down.
    â€œWhat a long way it is!” he says, sighing and clearing his throat. “It’s no joke! From my house to here is almost two hours.”
    â€œHow are you?”
    â€œFeeling poorly. I’ve had a fever.”
    â€œA fever!”
    â€œYes, I have been in bed almost a week; I thought I might die. Then I had some complication, some vitamin deficiency, and a clump of my hair came out. Now my hair’s coming out. The doctor says I must be shaved. He says the hair will grow again strong. So that’s why I’m here. Better you than a stranger. You’ll do it better and won’t make me feel strange about it. Plus, it’s free. Except for the two-hour drive.”
    â€œOf course. With pleasure. Please sit down.”
    With a scrape of his foot the barber indicates a chair. Billy Ray Cyrus sits down and looks at himself in the glass and is apparently pleased with his reflection: the looking glass displays a face awry, with thin lips, a sharp nose, and eyes set high, almost in the forehead. The barber puts round his client’s shoulders a white sheet with yellow spots on it, and begins snipping with the scissors.
    â€œI’ll shave you clean to the skin!” he says.
    â€œDo it. I want to look like a bomb. The doctor says it’ll grow back thicker.”
    â€œHow’s Jackie Chan? The two of you are working on a movie together, right?”
    â€œYes. He sprained his ankle earlier this month.”
    â€œHis ankle? Too bad, though he must be used to that kind of thing. Hold your ear.”
    â€œI am holding it. . . . Don’t cut me. Ouch! You are pulling my hair.”
    â€œThat doesn’t matter. We can’t help that in our work. And how is your daughter Miley?”
    â€œGood, good. She was single for a bit, but then she got engaged. She’s going to have a big wedding. You should come.”
    The scissors cease snipping. The young barber drops his hands and asks in a fright:
    â€œWho is betrothed?”
    â€œMiley.”
    â€œHow’s that? To whom?”
    â€œTo some guy named Steve. Steve Adams? He has a few stores near Sacramento. She swore off actors and celebrities, you know, because she doesn’t really need money. We were worried she wouldn’t find someone she could be herself around, but this guy seems great. We are all delighted. The wedding will be in two weeks. You should come; we will have a good time.”
    â€œThis is impossible,” says the barber, pale, astonished, and shrugging his shoulders. “It’s . . . it’s utterly impossible. Why, Miley . . . why I . . . why, I cherished sentiments for her, I had intentions. We spoke at length last summer about her decision to be done with actors. I thought she had a sense of me, of how I could make her happy. How could this be?”
    â€œWhy, we just went and betrothed her. He’s a good fellow.”
    Cold drops of perspiration come on the face of the barber. He puts the scissors down on the table and begins rubbing his nose with his fist.
    â€œI had intentions,” he says. “It’s impossible. I am in love with her and have just recently sent her a letter offering my heart. I have always respected you as though you were my father. I always cut your hair for nothing. When my father died you came in here and took some paintings off the walls and gave me nothing for them. Do you remember?”
    â€œRemember! Of course I do. I love you like a son. But do you think you are a pair with Miley? It seems unlikely. You have no money and no standing. You are a barber.”
    â€œAnd is Steve Adams rich?”
    â€œSteve Adams is in sporting goods. He’s a little older than you are. He owns his house. Look. It’s no good talking about it. The thing’s done. You must look