Haircut, oh haircut. How I dread thee. Every few months it comes time for the dreaded haircut. It makes me envy the days of visiting the orthodontist. My hatred of the haircut comes from an amalgam of things. My inability/dislike of small talk. My ineptitude of communicating the description of the haircut I want. And the inevitable reveal, almost always displeasing. I loathe getting my haircut, so much so, in college I bought clippers and shaved my head, for three year I successfully evaded any barbershop, salon or stylist. Like most things, I grew bored with my crew cut and started venturing back out to the hair professionals. Even so, I never attend the same barber or stylist more than twice. It’s a kin to a loveless marriage, I start to despise the person’s contact. Making me a barbershop nomad, moving from place to place, chair to chair.
As my hair grew long and the temperatures rose, I felt it was time for a haircut and not just a trim, but new hairstyle. Something short and worthy of the change of season. I made an appointment at a local hair salon (one I had never been to before), did some research on the internet and found a style I liked. While I usually frequent barbershops, this salon offered a change of pace, one that employed ‘stylists’ not ‘barbers’, something I felt needed to be done, considering the radical change in hairstyle.
I entered the salon and approached the front desk. With a quick glance, I could assess I was the lone male in the salon. I gave the girl my name, and to my surprise (and pleasure), she said ‘Chris’ would be taking care of me today. Ah ha, I wasn’t the only man in the building, I had another male compadre. Oh, no I was wrong, Chris is a female Kris, back to my isolated male existence. I sat in the chair and started telling her what I wanted. I could tell by the look on her face that the ineffective jumble of words I strung together did a poor job of conveying what I wanted, so I took out my iPhone and showed her a picture (do people actually show pictures to their hairdressers??), I felt so lame (compounding my lameness was the fact that the picture was of Ryan Gosling, how stupid does it look to be like “here, can you make me look like the Sexist Man Alive, thanks”). I did like Kris though, she was short on small talk (I love that). Then as she snipped away it was perfect, not quite the style I asked for, but it looked fantastic. I should have said something, because she just kept cutting, and soon it was gone. A haircut worthy of my dread. Let me be clear it wasn’t Kris’ fault, she gave me what I asked for, but the style just didn’t fit my face or my head shape.
While I don’t like the way the top of my head looks right now, I am optimistic. Every cloud has a silver lining. And I feel cautiously confident that it will grow in nicely and look much better in a week or so when it gets a bit longer. For the meantime, it’s time to break out the Yankee cap.