I like to support mom-and-pop shops so I walked into an old-time barbershop for a trim. I knew I wouldn’t get a hip, high-fashion, Katie Holmes look that came with aromatherapy, music videos and chamomile tea. But still. I didn’t expect a head shearing that took eight minutes, two of which the “stylist” used to talk on her cell phone.
Since I bear a striking non-resemblance to Jessica Alba, it’s unsettling to walk into a place and have everyone stop talking and stare at you. The reason: I was the youngest person in the cluttered, cramped shop. Average client age: 80 years old.
As they pondered what to do with this walk-in anomaly, a woman in her 40s entered and was immediately dubbed my hairstylist. Did she even work here?
I told her I wanted a trim of two inches. She apparently heard, “You’ve got two minutes, lady. Move it!”
After she grudgingly cleared the counter so I could put my bag down, she kept repeating, “Sit. Sit.” Once I did, the race was on!
Wha-pack! She whipped out a black vinyl sheet and threw it around my neck, leaving my back exposed. Fshht! Fshht! Streams of water shot out of a spray bottle. Snip! Snip! Shears flew in a mad flurry. Aren’t there major arteries around there? Before I pointed that out, she pushed my head from side to side, interfering with my growing thoughts of sliced ears, leptospirosis and tetanus.
Then her phone went off. My wet hair and I waited while she talked in another language. “Chwa ko ha heee!” (Laughter in her native language.) She probably said, “Hey honey, pick up milk, Twinkies and the kids on the way home,” but when it’s in another language, you always get the feeling it’s about you, in this case, my split ends and misshapen head.
When the call ended, it was – game on. “Bzzz! Bzzz!” went the electric shaver. Electric shaver? “Trim! Only a trim!” I cried out in my mind because I was too scared to confront the General. Finally, the blowdryer whooshed everything to a nice and toasty crisp.
Meanwhile, the back of my uncovered neck had taken on a swarthy look during the cut. Falling hair clung stubbornly to my nape, adhering to pools of nervous sweat. She fixed that right up by slapping a towel against it back and forth. Pak! Pak! Pak!
Finished. The man who was in the middle of a trim when I arrived was still getting a trim. And I was done. Afraid to closely examine the end result, I got up and mumbled, “Great. Thanks.” The hairbrush went back into a bucket of brushes. Shouldn’t it be washed?
While a guy helped his 90-year-old dad shuffle to a chair, I paid fifteen bucks plus tax and a $2.50 tip. I must admit, you can’t beat the price, unless I left with a haircut and a head of lice.
I passed Taco Bell on my way back to the car. The three girls who were eating there when I came were still eating. And they call it fast food. Ha ha ha! Sob!
At home, I looked at myself objectively in the mirror. “Hmm, I don’t hate it,” I thought. I dusted myself off, washed out any potential parasites and trimmed a few errant long hairs. Then I went to the office and heard several, “It looks nice,” as opposed to, “Ohhhh, you got a haircut,” which usually means, “Good God, what happened to your hair?!”
So I got a decent trim in the end. Is that enough to make me want to go back? No. But I don’t yearn for blueberry scones and friendly banter at an over-priced salon either. Now, I’m thinking of getting a Flowbee. I can already hear my co-workers saying, “My, that’s some hairdo you’ve got going on.” (Translation: For the love of Medusa, what have you done?!”)
