The Haircut

I stumbled down the street tonight to meet a friend for dinner.  I was about thirty minutes early.  So, it was a slow stumble.  I whizzed by a barber shop and did an about face.  I could get a trim before dinner.  I opened the door and walked back in time, people.  This barber shop looked like it was erected in 1960.  The barber sat in the barber chair watching the evening news.  There wasn’t another person in the store.  (Clue # 1 that I should have run for my life.)  I stomped in and asked, “Have time for a haircut?” 

Barber: “Fo Sho, man.  I do.” 

Me: “Great!”

By now I was committed to the experience, but it was only now, after spewing “GREAT!” that I realized this might have been a mistake.  Of the three barber chairs in the joint, only one was operational.  The other two were piled HIGH with magazines, newspapers, bottles of shaving cream, paper bags, etc.  As I set my big rear end down in the only operational chair I looked to the counter behind me.  Same kind of deal there, too.  There were newspapers, bottles, bags from the drug store, and stacks of papers.  The mirrors were hazy.  Clearly they hadn’t been washed in at least five years, maybe longer.  I looked to the floor.  Big mistake….BIG mistake…..The black and white checkered tile was no longer black and white.  It was black and dark gray.  The corners of the barber shop had visible dust and dirt piled up.  One corner had an ash tray full of cigarette butts and two empty bottles of Ocean Spray cranberry juice.  Mmm Hmmm.. This looked like my oldest brother’s room when we were growing up.  (He is my favorite brother, but neat he is not.)

Directly across from the chair I sat in was a late 70’s sofa sleeper that wasn’t unfolded, but the once cream colored fabric was dark gray in most places with spots of heavy black.  I assumed this wasn’t from the shoe polish, people.  It was a dirt trap.

The gentleman, who I learned was the shop owner who had run this shop for the past 39 years,  reached for the clippers to start buzzing my hair.  Then he spoke, “Man, you sho got a lot of grease in your hair.”

Me: “Oh, no…no.. That is gel.  I lather that stuff up so I won’t catch lice.  I read an old tale that claims lice don’t like sticky or slippery surfaces.  So, I gel up daily so I don’t get any.”

Him:” Nope, never heard ‘dat befo.”

Then he wet down a towel and started to wipe my hair clean of the “grease”.  It was like I used to do when I was washing something off of my dog’s coat.  Because the place was surrounded in hazy mirrors, I could sort of see everything that was happening.

Finally he finished the “washing” and proceeded with the cutting.  I kept surveying the room making small talk. “Busy in here today?”

Him: “No, not too much.  This cut cost $17, cash only. ‘Dat ok?”

Me: After doing some quick number crunching in disbelief that this joint could charge $17 for a cut said, ‘Mmm Hmmm. I have a 20,” and I patted my pocket.  This was as if patting somehow signified that I was telling the truth and that by doing so would surely indicate that there was in-fact a 20 in my pocket.

So, there I sat and watched the most unusual haircut unfold in my life.  To my dismay, the door opened and a “regular” stomped in for his cut.  He was met with a warm greeting and took a seat on the 70’s gray/black dirt couch and thumbed through a newspaper. I counted cobwebs and wondered when the “work” would be done on my head.

Before long I was done and my neck was washed with an alcohol based product.  Never had that done to me at the barber before, but I allowed it not wanting to look like I was new to the haircut scene.  I paid and walked down the street to meet my friend for dinner.

I stopped at the restroom in the restaurant and was dumbfounded.  The sides of my hair were cut with a #2 razor guard.  I liked that part.  The trouble was on the upper sides of my head.  It looked like I had winglets, like 7-47’s do.  The hair on the top of my head was short, short, super short.  It was so short that it wouldn’t stand up when damp.  How do I know this?  I wet my hair down in the bathroom of the restaurant and nearly let out an audible sound of disbelief.

I stomped to the table where my friend was waiting and she said, “Great haircut!” – Was this a joke?  I said, “Thanks, I am going to work on it when I get home.”  Work on it? – What was I saying?  I needed to stop at the store and get a pair of clippers and go Q-ball after this wing let cut.  So, I learned something tonight when I got home.  Cutting hair and fixing someone else’s so-called haircut job is a lot harder than you think.  I wonder if I can get away with wearing a ball cap for a few days at work.