Today I am going
to get my hair cut. It’s going to be the first time getting my hair
snipped at the hairdresser in many years. My locks previously have
been dealt with at home, cut by kin. I need my head professionally
worked away from ruggedness this time. An important event is
impending, a cordial reception where I will be judged by many.
What could I
expect? Is it expensive? It shouldn’t be a lot for such a simple
procedure. I hope the twenty dollars slim will cover my little trim.
What specifications should I relay? Maybe I’ll just ask: “Give me
whatever style that is affordable, simple, and removes the look of a
despondent bush from my head.”
Is there any way I
should prepare? I made sure to wash and condition my hair, so I don’t
get sucked into a professional head wash, hogwash, or some other
slimy scheme to supply seemingly unnecessary services.
What if he screws
it up? Although this event could be deemed very nominally important,
a lot of things are riding on it. I need to impress people with my
showing, so that maybe they will tell their important friends how
that professional person they are looking for exists. My career could
be shaped by this. A rudimentary cut wouldn’t do, it must look
good.
Maybe I’m taking
this too seriously; it’s just a routine thing, nothing really
special. It’s just preparation to make sure I look spiffy and
confident. After all, how hard could slicing another’s fur be? All
they do is cut it to pieces.
Why is someone
going to judge me over the styling of my crown? I should be afforded
some kind of leeway, especially due to the monumental effort I put
into this.
You can only make
a first impression once. Probably the best impression is that of a
well groomed intelligent man of diligence.
It would be regrettably laughable, to stand there with a loose lock
or curl, jutting out like a sore thumb.
I must take a leap of faith. It’s
not as though the state of my head is in impeccable shape. The top is
like a flower bed left unattended. Various weeds and tangles
sprouting out like it’s nobody’s business. The hairdresser is
probably equivalent to pouring gasoline and lighting matches. Sure it
looks like a very effective option, but the inherent risks have me
guessing a second, third, fourth, who knows how many times.
I hope it goes smoothly, my hair being
transformed into something more majestic, and pleasing to the eye.
Resembling less a mushroom cloud, more like the head of a
well-respected citizen. I must shed my clownliness, so that I may
impress.
…
Here I am at the hairdressers. The
building looks interesting; it’s a bit worn and deteriorated, but
not so much that it is run down. Inside seems a bit more orderly than
out. The business is busy, so I have to sit down upon one of these
imitation leather chairs in the waiting room. I’m looking at the
pile of magazines at my feet, but there is nothing of interest to me.
It’s ok, I’ll only have to wait a few minutes.
This place is well
decorated there are football flags, and posters pinned to the wall,
and a few clocks hanging from nails. In a glass cabinet in front of
me there are numerous antique razors and scissors. Some of them look
rusted, and others are polished and sharp. Either the owner has been
operating for a long time, or is an avid antique collector. This
appears to be a good thing, if he has cut enough heads to retire many
It’s now time for my hair to be
reduced in mass and fluffiness. The barber’s chair is again
imitation leather, which seems to be part of the establishment’s
theme.
“What do you
want done with your hair?” bellows the barber.
“Nothing fancy”
I reply. “Just take a few inches off.
“Ok, your hair
is pretty thick, I’m going to need to wet it down first” This
statement is comforting. Most of those who have cut my hair
previously would say my hair needed a bit of moisture to straighten
it out. By a bit of moisture, I mean totally soaking my head under
the tap.
Now that my hair has been properly
prepared, the barber is skimming over it, leaving large swathes as he
goes. All my removed hair is fluttering to the floor, dispersing into
a layer of fuzz on the floor. Looking down it appears that the floor
has become carpeted in the stuff.
The stylist is snapping and stabbing
at the hair with such precision and speed, more than I am used to
from my family members. We exchange a bit of small talk as he goes
on, until he is done. The chair is rotated so that I may see my
reflection through the mirror.
I have been transformed far then from
where I had started. I look much more formal, more than adequate for
what I need to do. I pay him what he asks, gladly the money I brought
along cover’s it exactly. I walk out with what I set out for, a
head of reduced magnitude.
