It struck me today, while waiting for a bit over an hour for a haircut, that I have had a life-long war with barbers. I hadn't thought too much about it in the past, and if I had, I probably would have conceptualized it more like a truce, or a non-aggression pact at the very most. From the moment I walk into the shop until the moment they spin me around and ask me what I just may consider the stupidest question in the history of mankind, "How does it look?", I am perpetually at unease. I think I rather prefer my ventures to the dentist office to tell you the truth.
Getting a haircut is a no-win proposition from the beginning - there is no way to make my head look good, and this is compounded then by the fact that people know you have just been to the barber and you don't look better. Maybe it is because I have a big head, lots of scars, vacillating cowlicks on either side, and hair that has been graying longer than I care to remember. My best expectation for one of monthly excursions is more of a medical mode - "do no harm." Lately, it seems that there are two choices available, looking like a 14 year old or an octogenarian when I leave - nothing seems possible in between. Alas, I have long since resigned myself to a poor haircut, but there is more to the experience that I dread, much more. Today was a great example, visiting a local community barbershop in West Virginia. You see it seems to be every barber's mission to talk my ears off why he/she trims the hair around them (and sadly, lately, in them), and it is my fervent desire to be left largely alone.
I walked into this local tonsorial parlor in a good mood. Once inside that buoyancy evaporated immediately as I recognized I was fourth in line, and dialogue was part and parcel of the ambiance. There was a middle aged woman holding court, while cutting hair and pontificating with the senior citizens in the room. Each customer had his own particular palaver, and she went toe to toe with each of them. I listened as they debated the merits of a four-quart versus six-quart pressure cooker, canned green beans versus Kroger beans, Douglas MacArthur and Afghanistan, the proper dosages for various acid reflux medications, various banking vagaries and bounced checks, the time of life when ear hair began to grow faster than head hair, and a few other streams I couldn't quite follow. Somewhere in the middle of my wait, it struck me that when I got to the chair, I would be interrogated and would need to feed a particular parlay with something interesting or appropriately sensible - my mind went blank. I think I even dreaded my moment to rise and mount the chair, contemplating letting the next in line go ahead of me. I shook this off, and bravely stood up, put down my Field and Stream magazine, shuffled across ten feet of scattered hair clippings and sat down unceremoniously.
The previous occupant had not finished his business however, and stood at the door finishing his end of the great heartburn debate for several minutes. This gave me time to rehearse the obligatory directions I would give my hairdresser, and I settled on "just clean it up a little, get it off my ears, and I bring the top straight down." She said ok, and I waited for her first foray into a dialogue. Amazingly though, I was rescued by a regular perhaps sensing my reticence, who started into a story about a local publisher who had just released a new book on beekeeping. Feeling like a man who had just been given a reprieve of another sort from another kind of chair, I smiled, hunkered down a bit, and prayed for the efficacy of apiary anecdotes. The chatted about bees and honey and books right up to the time she spun me around and confronted me with the redundant question, asking for approval well past the point of any return. I had managed to get through the whole ordeal with those simple initial directions and a few grunts. I was happy.
She was a nice lady, and so, apparently, was her mother from the few stories she shared. I thought while she was chatting and clipping, about why I did not like to talk while in a chair as someone was hovering over me with scissors and electric clippers. I wasn't afraid of them nipping me, nor am I always taciturn around strangers or in new situations. I guess I figure that these professionals have a nearly impossible job in the first place, and I really don't want to distract them from their work. Oddly though, I also considered that my refusal to engage them in the obligatory banter might even irritate them leading to worse contingencies, but I figured it really didn't matter. I smiled as I responded "just fine" despite not looking up to verify the assertion, and I tipped her two dollars as I left.
The spring returned to my step as I walked out to the my truck to return to work - I had survived a trip to a down-home barbershop with minimal discourse, had explored a few new avenues of human nature, and I knew whatever had happened to my head would be irrelevant for me for awhile, as I planned no visit to any mirror anytime soon.
Getting a haircut is a no-win proposition from the beginning - there is no way to make my head look good, and this is compounded then by the fact that people know you have just been to the barber and you don't look better. Maybe it is because I have a big head, lots of scars, vacillating cowlicks on either side, and hair that has been graying longer than I care to remember. My best expectation for one of monthly excursions is more of a medical mode - "do no harm." Lately, it seems that there are two choices available, looking like a 14 year old or an octogenarian when I leave - nothing seems possible in between. Alas, I have long since resigned myself to a poor haircut, but there is more to the experience that I dread, much more. Today was a great example, visiting a local community barbershop in West Virginia. You see it seems to be every barber's mission to talk my ears off why he/she trims the hair around them (and sadly, lately, in them), and it is my fervent desire to be left largely alone.
I walked into this local tonsorial parlor in a good mood. Once inside that buoyancy evaporated immediately as I recognized I was fourth in line, and dialogue was part and parcel of the ambiance. There was a middle aged woman holding court, while cutting hair and pontificating with the senior citizens in the room. Each customer had his own particular palaver, and she went toe to toe with each of them. I listened as they debated the merits of a four-quart versus six-quart pressure cooker, canned green beans versus Kroger beans, Douglas MacArthur and Afghanistan, the proper dosages for various acid reflux medications, various banking vagaries and bounced checks, the time of life when ear hair began to grow faster than head hair, and a few other streams I couldn't quite follow. Somewhere in the middle of my wait, it struck me that when I got to the chair, I would be interrogated and would need to feed a particular parlay with something interesting or appropriately sensible - my mind went blank. I think I even dreaded my moment to rise and mount the chair, contemplating letting the next in line go ahead of me. I shook this off, and bravely stood up, put down my Field and Stream magazine, shuffled across ten feet of scattered hair clippings and sat down unceremoniously.
The previous occupant had not finished his business however, and stood at the door finishing his end of the great heartburn debate for several minutes. This gave me time to rehearse the obligatory directions I would give my hairdresser, and I settled on "just clean it up a little, get it off my ears, and I bring the top straight down." She said ok, and I waited for her first foray into a dialogue. Amazingly though, I was rescued by a regular perhaps sensing my reticence, who started into a story about a local publisher who had just released a new book on beekeeping. Feeling like a man who had just been given a reprieve of another sort from another kind of chair, I smiled, hunkered down a bit, and prayed for the efficacy of apiary anecdotes. The chatted about bees and honey and books right up to the time she spun me around and confronted me with the redundant question, asking for approval well past the point of any return. I had managed to get through the whole ordeal with those simple initial directions and a few grunts. I was happy.
She was a nice lady, and so, apparently, was her mother from the few stories she shared. I thought while she was chatting and clipping, about why I did not like to talk while in a chair as someone was hovering over me with scissors and electric clippers. I wasn't afraid of them nipping me, nor am I always taciturn around strangers or in new situations. I guess I figure that these professionals have a nearly impossible job in the first place, and I really don't want to distract them from their work. Oddly though, I also considered that my refusal to engage them in the obligatory banter might even irritate them leading to worse contingencies, but I figured it really didn't matter. I smiled as I responded "just fine" despite not looking up to verify the assertion, and I tipped her two dollars as I left.
The spring returned to my step as I walked out to the my truck to return to work - I had survived a trip to a down-home barbershop with minimal discourse, had explored a few new avenues of human nature, and I knew whatever had happened to my head would be irrelevant for me for awhile, as I planned no visit to any mirror anytime soon.
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