Summer

"Want to work for me this summer?" Dad asked.

"Sure," I replied.

Still in high school in 1962, I had grown tired of counseling at summer camps. I wanted to earn some real money. Best of all, working for my dad meant that I would be driving each day with him from suburban New Jersey to Manhattan. My dad had been a successful owner/operator of beauty salons located in northern New Jersey, each of which he called Andre's - Salon de Coiffure. Mr. Andre was my father whose name was Walter. Because varicose veins made standing all day styling hair increasingly difficult, he sold his salons and undertook small businesses that sold natural hair products. Under the name "Wig Centre," he opened small stores in Elizabeth, Newark, and Paramus. Now it was the big time...New York City. His latest store was a second floor walk-up situated directly across the street from Macy's on 34th Street. To add prestige to this enterprise, he called this newest store "Wig City."

Here's the deal: human hair products, such as wigs, ponytails, braids, and wiglets, must be fashioned from natural hair, neither dyed nor subjected to permanents because these chemicals make hair too brittle. Dad traveled to Hong Kong to purchase Chinese hair because China had a large rural population willing to sell their hair cheaply. Unfortunately, the United States had imposed a boycott on products from "Red China" as part of its cold war strategy. Chinese hair importation was illegal. Dad arranged to send the Chinese hair to Italy where workers stripped its color, applied dyes, and attached an Italian certificate of origin. Factories located in New York City fabricated the hair into products that were labeled - "One-Hundred Percent Natural European Hair."

I thought I had ruined my chances to work for my father after turning down a job proposal during the previous school year when he asked if I would do some driving for him. He explained that I would drive customers from his Elizabeth wig store to a finance company located in Plainfield. The idea was for me to chauffeur any customer who needed to borrow money to buy a wig because New Jersey required that borrowers consummate installment loans in person at a finance company. Dad drove me to the finance company to meet his new colleague. The guy was a square. Five feet high and five feet wide. Dressed in a black suit with wavy black hair, he would have been a caricature of a muscle guy for the mob, except I was too scared even to think that he looked like a joke. On the way back home, I told my father I wanted nothing to do with this arrangement because it took advantage of poor women. I also suggested that he and his business would end up controlled by the mob. Fortunately, my mother got wind of dad's deal and she threatened to leave him. Shortly after receiving her ultimatum, he sold his New Jersey stores and arranged to open his grand Manhattan enterprise. When Dad again asked me to work for him, he seemed to have totally forgotten about our previous conversation.

At first, work was a blast. I would wake up about five-thirty, take a quick shower, and dress in time to leave home by six o'clock. Dad would drive us into Manhattan. He drove kind of zombie-like because he never went to sleep before midnight. I soon realized that he would be all right as long as I did not say anything that could distract him. From our home in South Orange, we drove through Newark before entering onto old highway roads that passed New Jersey's refinery infernos and endless acres of swamp broken only by the occasional billboard that advertised glamorous Broadway shows. An overwhelming stench made one stretch of particularly desolate terrain even more miserable. My father did not seem to notice the putrid smell. He was in his driving zone. Depending on road conditions broadcast by early-morning traffic reporters, we switched between roads leading to either the Lincoln or Holland tunnel. After parking, we grabbed a quick bite to eat at a nearby Chuck full o' Nuts Coffee and donut shop. Our workday formally started around seven. I would return wigs left lying around to their appropriate bins, sweep a little, arrange our sales slips and pens, and generally neaten up the place. Then I would restock the shipping room. In addition to an active walk-in trade, Dad had developed a solid business shipping wigs to both wholesale and retail clients by placing advertisements in a variety of magazines. I would also check on the adjacent space that Dad had turned into a walk-in beauty salon. By six o'clock in the evening when we closed shop, I felt exhausted. Dad would again drive wide-eyed back home where we would plod into our house almost too exhausted to eat. Miraculously, he would revive after dinner and discuss business with Mom, read his photography magazines, and watch the evening news while waiting for the Jack Parr show. Both parents fell asleep shortly after Parr, and then, Johnny Carson. My evenings were spent lazily shooting basketball hoops in our lighted driveway, reading about radicals like Eugene V. Debs, and watching serial westerns like Have Gun Will Travel, Gunsmoke, and Maverick.

At work, I recall memorizing sample rings of hair. Number 1 is black, number 1b is off black, and then the numbers moved upward into the browns, the reds, and the mixed browns with various combinations of gray until the ring showed a surprising amount of blond shades before ending in seemingly endless varieties of gray. Once I had memorized the ring colors so I could quickly match a women's hair to a number, I began to sell wigs. After all, I knew more than the purchasers did. With a little flattery, the sale went easily. It also helped to have cheap prices compared with the more upscale wig shops against whom we competed. In an act of inspired merchandising, Dad had fashioned the shop to look like a bargain discount operation. He stationed a long, white counter in the front where customers could handle the merchandise. They could also see cardboard bins overflowing with hair products that filled rows of metal cabinets.

"This is your color. It brings out your lovely skin tones. Once it is cut and styled, you will feel like a million dollars. This wig has a natural look. Unlike shiny fake hair. Our netting is light and soft so you won't sweat. Of course, you can take it now and have your beautician prepare it. Or you can bring it next door where our stylists will cut and shape it to suit your face."

My only complaint was that neither of the ditsy sales girls would date me. It was only later that I learned they did not want me to find out they were stealing merchandise.

After a few weeks, Dad explained that he would be leaving for a week-long trip to Hong Kong. He wanted me to run the store. He explained that while he was gone, I should fire the shipping clerk. He also explained that some men would be arriving mid-week to pick up an order of ponytails. I was not to accept their check. They needed to pay ten thousand dollars in cash. Then he left.

My meeting with the shipping clerk did not go well. The clerk was an old fellow who complained that his feet hurt. When I told me that we no longer required his services, he told me that someday I would be old and some kid would fire me. I felt cursed. Shortly after this incident, I decided that I would never again fire anyone.

Our sales continued steadily that week. Then late one day, the ponytail buyers arrived. I was alone in the store with the elderly bookkeeper. When I demanded cash, they balked. They wanted to give me a check. I refused. They said that business people conduct business through checks. I refused. They got angry. I held my ground. They finally said that they would be back in one-half hour with the cash. They asked me to stay open until then and I agreed. When they returned, they presented me with a cashier's check. I asked the bookkeeper whether I should accept the cashier's check. She told me that a check is a check. I refused. They finally left...very, very angry. When my father returned, he too was very, very angry. He told me that any idiot knows that a cashier's check is the same as cash. Apparently, both his son and his bookkeeper were idiots. He said that the ponytail men had threatened to beat the hell out of him because they had a buyer for the ponytails. Only be explaining that he had to put up with an idiot son had he escaped unharmed. He told me that he threw in some extra merchandise and completed the sale.

"Did you learn anything?" he asked.

"Yes, I did."

I never worked for my father again.