LJ Idol, Week 7
I’d like to say it had been just a week or two in which I had endured the nagging, but the truth was that it was probably closer to a month and a half. Yes, I was aware that she wanted me to get a haircut. Yes, I too wanted to get a haircut. However, the thought of going to a hair…cutter (Barber? Hair dresser? Cranial stylist?) seemed like a hopelessly dull task that I couldn’t be bothered to do.
There was little that was worse than having to sit in a chair and make small talk to some lady with a pair of scissors. No, I don’t care about her new apartment or dog or children. Yes, the weather sure is cold out. Yeah, how about that local sports team? Big win, right? Just cut my hair in silence, please. If the hair-cutterist can’t possibly cut hair for longer than 5 minutes without saying something, she (or he, let’s be fair) is welcome to practice beat-boxing or whistling, as that seems slightly less annoying than small talk.
Rants about hair cutting experts aside, it still had to be done. I elected to go a local place that had cheap rates and was close enough to a Mexican restaurant that I could convince myself that I’d treat myself to a burrito when it was said and done.
Still, there was something slightly off-putting about a place called Hair Slicers. Slicers, really? There had to have been a better name if the proprietors had thought about it a little longer. I was still going to give them my business, of course; a victory burrito was but a short walk away from here.
“What do you want me to do with it?” said the woman to me as I sat in her chair, facing a mirror.
“Just, like, cut it.”
“How?”
“Shorter? I don’t know. I’m not good at this.”
“Like an inch? Two inches?”
“Well,” I said, thinking out loud, “how much hair do you think is on my head now?”
“What? Maybe, like, four inches?”
“Okay. Then cut three of those inches off. And then just, like, stylize that last inch.”
“I’ll figure something out,” she said, despite the fact that she didn’t sound at all confident in that statement.
Miraculously, the next few minutes were a breeze. She didn’t say a word to me, as she just concentrated on cutting my hair. The experience was so nice, in fact, that I drifted off to sleep.
At this point I had a dream about piloting a helicopter, but I’ll leave out those details, as they are not pertinent to the story at hand.
When I came to, the first thing that I noticed was that I was not facing a mirror and was now facing a wall on the other side of the shop. I turned to my side to see that the woman cutting my hair looked rather nervous.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. “How long was I out for?”
“Everything is…fine,” she said, hesitantly.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Well…there’s a little problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I cut too much off.”
“How much?” I asked. I was beginning to feel frustrated, but the reality had yet to sink in.
“All of it,” she confessed.
“What? How does that even happen?”
“Well…your hair…it’s so nice to cut. I can’t explain it. But I just kept cutting and cutting. I got carried away, I suppose, and…well, your hair is gone.”
I leaped from the chair and ran to the mirror. Sure enough, there was my bald head, glimmering in the cheap incandescent lighting of the salon.
“My hair!” I exclaimed. “You didn’t leave a single hair up there! I’ve got…bupkiss!”
“I didn’t butt kiss,” she responded snootily, mishearing me.
“That’s not what I said.” I waved my hands, dismissing the current conversation, instead grabbing my jacket.
“I won’t charge you for this,” she said, as if offering a peace treaty of sorts.
I didn’t even bother responding. I stormed out the door. I started towards my car when I thought of the burrito. I shouldn’t deprive myself, I thought. If anything, maybe I now deserved two burritos.
A small jolt wakes me and I realize that I had been lying on my couch, asleep. My hands rush to my head and I find that all of my hair is, in fact, there. She’s poking me.
“Are you getting your hair cut today?” she asks, yet again.
“No,” I say, groggily. “Also, I’m never getting my hair cut again.”
There was little that was worse than having to sit in a chair and make small talk to some lady with a pair of scissors. No, I don’t care about her new apartment or dog or children. Yes, the weather sure is cold out. Yeah, how about that local sports team? Big win, right? Just cut my hair in silence, please. If the hair-cutterist can’t possibly cut hair for longer than 5 minutes without saying something, she (or he, let’s be fair) is welcome to practice beat-boxing or whistling, as that seems slightly less annoying than small talk.
Rants about hair cutting experts aside, it still had to be done. I elected to go a local place that had cheap rates and was close enough to a Mexican restaurant that I could convince myself that I’d treat myself to a burrito when it was said and done.
Still, there was something slightly off-putting about a place called Hair Slicers. Slicers, really? There had to have been a better name if the proprietors had thought about it a little longer. I was still going to give them my business, of course; a victory burrito was but a short walk away from here.
“What do you want me to do with it?” said the woman to me as I sat in her chair, facing a mirror.
“Just, like, cut it.”
“How?”
“Shorter? I don’t know. I’m not good at this.”
“Like an inch? Two inches?”
“Well,” I said, thinking out loud, “how much hair do you think is on my head now?”
“What? Maybe, like, four inches?”
“Okay. Then cut three of those inches off. And then just, like, stylize that last inch.”
“I’ll figure something out,” she said, despite the fact that she didn’t sound at all confident in that statement.
Miraculously, the next few minutes were a breeze. She didn’t say a word to me, as she just concentrated on cutting my hair. The experience was so nice, in fact, that I drifted off to sleep.
At this point I had a dream about piloting a helicopter, but I’ll leave out those details, as they are not pertinent to the story at hand.
When I came to, the first thing that I noticed was that I was not facing a mirror and was now facing a wall on the other side of the shop. I turned to my side to see that the woman cutting my hair looked rather nervous.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. “How long was I out for?”
“Everything is…fine,” she said, hesitantly.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Well…there’s a little problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I cut too much off.”
“How much?” I asked. I was beginning to feel frustrated, but the reality had yet to sink in.
“All of it,” she confessed.
“What? How does that even happen?”
“Well…your hair…it’s so nice to cut. I can’t explain it. But I just kept cutting and cutting. I got carried away, I suppose, and…well, your hair is gone.”
I leaped from the chair and ran to the mirror. Sure enough, there was my bald head, glimmering in the cheap incandescent lighting of the salon.
“My hair!” I exclaimed. “You didn’t leave a single hair up there! I’ve got…bupkiss!”
“I didn’t butt kiss,” she responded snootily, mishearing me.
“That’s not what I said.” I waved my hands, dismissing the current conversation, instead grabbing my jacket.
“I won’t charge you for this,” she said, as if offering a peace treaty of sorts.
I didn’t even bother responding. I stormed out the door. I started towards my car when I thought of the burrito. I shouldn’t deprive myself, I thought. If anything, maybe I now deserved two burritos.
A small jolt wakes me and I realize that I had been lying on my couch, asleep. My hands rush to my head and I find that all of my hair is, in fact, there. She’s poking me.
“Are you getting your hair cut today?” she asks, yet again.
“No,” I say, groggily. “Also, I’m never getting my hair cut again.”