Monday, 4 March 2013

Shear Anticipation

I wrote this for a writing class at highschool, and felt it to be blog worthy. Enjoy

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.

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