The Haircut

I'll get straight to the point here. Friday afternoon: I needed a haircut in a bad way. My jewfro was beginning to more and more resemble steel wool. Patrick, a colleague, suggested we go get our mops cleaned up.

The work day ran out and we were on our way. It was en route, when he told me that no English was spoken at this place. He had a note in Slovak describing the haircut he wanted. After briefly entertaining the ridiculous notion of having the exact same haircut as Patrick I decided, albeit quite hesitantly, to freestyle it.

She looked 17. Her own hair, hung in a simple long ponytail, did not inspire much in the way of confidence. I forced a smile and took a seat. The butterflies flew in quasi-formation. She talked, I smiled and shrugged, apologized. The 4 female teams of hairdressers and customers all tried to suppress laughter. I think they talked about me for the next 30 minutes. Not in that flattering kind of way. My stylist, clad in black, picked up the electric things and I managed to convey I was a scissors only kind of guy. My fears of resembling the hairless 30% of the male population, resided.

I tried to maintain my optimism. Her first few snips were swift and significant. The audacity. She continued unabated. It was as if she saw my hair as an overgrown shrub, and she was the chainsaw yielding gardner just back from a month long vacation. I was excited. I felt triumphant.

I got distracted. I caught sight of her work in the mirror. The butterflies were vomited on one another. I faked some smiles and analyzed the job closely.

She evened things out and it began coming together.

In the end it turned out solid. It was like my emotions were riding a sine wave though.