I didn’t really have much choice. I took a bathroom break on Thursday, looked at my reflection as I was washing my hands, and was freaked out by what I saw.
It was as if I’d allowed Albert Einstein to be my stylist, and he had recently watched the film Eraserhead. Not the look I’m going for if I’m looking to get into a relationship with anyone other than a mad scientist.
I immediately made an appointment to have my shock top tamed again.
Denise, who is in charge of hairscaping, asked me if I’d like to try something different this time. I’ve never had much sense of style, but I knew I no longer wanted to look like a serial killer with a minor in quantum physics, so I told her to make it short.
After all, with all this running I’ve been doing, a little less up top would make me more aerodynamic in my quest to become The Flash.
Once I’d given those instructions, Denise launched into a half hour monologue about pretty much anything. Some highlights were today’s Rise Against Concert, the men who pissed on the sidewalk while in line for the recent Nickelback show, her son’s wisdom tooth extraction, the benefits of air conditioning, and where to get a decent lobster in the state that’s known for its lobsters.
Now all that chatter might upset another person, but for me, it was exactly what I needed. I’d just returned from a 4 mile run, quickly showered, and then did my best to feed Luna and clear her stuffy nose before rushing off to my appointment.
As I sat there and allowed Denise to see how many words she could get in over the course of one haircut (my fingers were crossed that she’d break the World Record!), my thoughts drifted to a memory of Rachel aka The Girl Who Moved Away.
Rachel used to hate going for hair appointments because she wasn’t very good at making small talk with the stylists, to the point that it left her uncomfortable. Whenever she’d have to get her hair done, I’d sit her down for a little pep talk and pepper her with conversation topics to help her survive the experience.
I also thought back to my previous barber, Fat Dave. He never gave me an option as to what was going to happen once I’d gotten into the chair. I guess they’d only taught one style of haircut at whatever barber school he’d attended, and Fat Dave proved that he must have graduated at the top of his class because my hair always looked exactly the same every time I left his barber shop.
Of course, the other major difference in styles was Fat Dave’s love of silence. I had a theory that he’d actually wanted to be a mime, but had been forced into a career as a barber by parents who refused to let their son “do that crazy French crap with the white face make up and the pretending to be trapped inside a box nonsense”.
Where Denise is a perpetual speaking machine, Fat Dave was all about the sounds of silence. He’d usually comment on the weather, and by comment, I mean he’d rip off bon mots like “It’s cold”, or “Looks like snow”, or “I see the town hasn’t plowed your street”.
I did a lot of mental outlining of whatever screenplay or story I was working on when I sat in his chair. That sort of thing isn’t possible when I listen to Denise.
And that’s not a bad thing. I can write any time. Listening to Denise’s stories gives me ideas for dialogue and inspires blog posts. Like this one.
The difference in styles is quite obvious, but they both have their benefits.
All that really matters, though, is that I leave the place looking even more handsome than I did when I entered.
I know that was the case today as I’m quite happy with my haircut. I’m sure you’re dying to see if Denise did a good job, so let me take a quick selfie to share…
Now if someone would please just point me in the direction of the single ladies, I’ve got some work to do…