I was in New York, upper east side, to evaluate a prep school for accreditation. Our team met after dinner with the trustees. I returned to my European-style hotel around 10 p.m. “European-style” means that I had a suite to myself but the front desk had no amenities. So, at 10:30, when I discovered that I had left my comb at home—I pictured it smugly lying there on the sink—the front desk had nothing to offer. “There’s a pharmacy around the corner; they might be open.” They weren’t. I took to wandering the streets, heading for light. The third place I found, blocks away, was open.
A panhandler shook a cup in front. “Spare some change?”
“Maybe on the way out,” I said, thinking I’d have change from a comb purchase.
A few of everything was on the wall behind the cashier—chapstick, batteries, condoms, lighters, nail clippers… But no comb. “Sorry,” she said.
Outside. “Couldn’t find what you need?” The panhandler.
“No.”
“What you need?”
Why reply? Who knows. “A comb.” I looked at him for the first time. Everything you’d want in a panhandler; layers of coats and dirt, a grizzled face and a halo of gray hair.
And there it was, in his filthy hand, under the lights of the store entrance. A comb. I didn’t reach for it, and my face must have betrayed my wariness.
“Come on, man. Take it. Some old lady gave it to me.”
I hesitated.
“Come on. It’s brand new. You think I comb my fuckin’ hair?” I looked. No, it did not look like he combed his fuckin’ hair.
I took it and gave him two dollars. I boiled it in my European-style suite kitchenette. I used it and I still have it in my ditty bag. When I’m traveling, I use it to comb my fuckin’ hair.
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