Joyce Carol Oates
THE HAIR
The couples fell in love but not at the same time, and not evenly.
There was perceived to be, from the start, an imbalance of power.
The less dominant couple, the Carsons, feared social disadvantage. They
feared being hopeful ofa friendship that would dissolve before consummation.
They feared seeming eager.
Said Charlotte Carson, hanging up the phone, "The Riegels have in–
vited us for dinner on New Year's," her voice level, revealing none of the
childlike exultation she felt, nor did she look up to see the expression on her
husband's face as he murmured, "Who? The Riegels?" pausing before adding,
"- That's very nice of them."
Once or twice, the Carsons had invited the Riegels to their home but
for one or another reason the Riegels had declined the invitation.
ew Year's Eve went well indeed and shortly thereafter - though not
too shortly - Charlotte Carson telephoned to invite the Riegels back.
The friendship between the couples blossomed. In a relatively small
community like the one in which tlle couples lived, such a new, quick, gallop–
ing sort ofalliance cannot go unnoticed.
So it was noted by mutual friends who felt some surprise, and perhaps
some envy. For the Riegels were a golden couple, newcomers
to
the area
who, not employed locally, had about tllem tlle glamor of temporary visitors.
In high school, Charlotte Carson thought with a stab of satisfaction, the
Riegels would have snubbed me.
O ld friends and acquaintances of the Carsons began
to
observe that
Charlotte and Barry were often busy on Saturday evenings, their calendar
seemingly marked for weeks in advance. And when a date did not appear to
be explicitly set Charlotte would so clearly - insultingly - hesitate, not want–
ing to surrender a prime weekend evening on ly
to
discover belatedly that
the Riegels wou ld call them at the last minute and ask them over. Charlotte
Carson, gentlest, most tactfu l of women, in her mid-thirties, shy at times as a
schoo lgirl of another era, was forced repeatedly to say" I'm sorry - I'm
afraid we can't." And insincerely.
Paul Riegel, whose name everyone knew, was in his early forties: he
was a travel writer, he had adventures of a public sort. He published articles
and books, he was often to be seen on television , he was tall, handsome,
tanned, gregarious, his graying hair springy at the sides of his head and re-
