I got my hair cut yesterday. It's always an interesting progression for me to get there though. My hair gets long and I start to like it long, and then I don't know if my neck gets tired of holding it all up or what, but the desire to shave it becomes intense. My better angel always convinces me not to, so I compromise with a simple haircut. Maybe I wait so long for a cut because I'm more financially sound than when I try to keep it continuously short. Or maybe it's because the haircut itself can be traumatic...
Like the time I had the Female Drill Sergeant. Her veins bulging from her biceps with every slice of my head with the clippers. The testosterone oozing off of her breath every time she shoved my head the direction it needed to be for her to slice my head with the clippers. The cancerous voice deeper than James Earl Jones. And all the emotions and tact of a sailor. Or Grizzly Bear. She asked my plans for the night. I said maybe that 9/11 movie, but maybe not because who's gonna feel good after that? Your night's shot because you're so depressed. She barks back my marching orders. "[expletive] that. That's history. That [expletive] happened. It sounds to me like YOU just don't wanna to see it. You need to be your own man, grow a pair and man up. Tell them you don't wanna see it. Or that what you really wanna do is get wasted and go out on the town." No. That's what you want to do. And I'm convinced you've already grown yours.
After rinsing out my ears and her mouth with soap, I mumbled, "Yeah. I guess you're right." Knowing full well she was. Lest she BREAKS ME IN HALF. Yes, Drill Ser-geant! Whatever you say, Drill Ser-geant!
I dont think she was ever a man though. In a past life? Now, maybe.
How about The Hair Shop of Clinton. All cuts: $5. At least when I was in school. With inflation, it might be like $5.25 now.
This place, this vortex in time, this hole in civilization, could easily be its own sitcom. I'm not lying. I won't do it justice here, and I try to do things justice here.
One time I had the man there. Strong, redneck, country man. Cutting hair. With a comb and scissors too small for his fingers. Quite dainty, actually. But it just didn't match. Piercing southern drawl, a rigid bellowing conversationalist. And a hair stylist. With his dainty scissoring technique down pat. He'd speak of 40 acre lots and smoking, chewing tobacco, guns, hunting and maybe even gathering. But he was gentle with the touch. It's as if the coarse exterior was the proof he had sublimated his inner metrosexuality. A Closet Redneck Metrosexual.
Or maybe he was just as good at oragami.
I had the woman once. Well there were two women and the Closet Redneck Metrosexual. The woman I ALWAYS got (and by ALWAYS I mean the two other times I went), was as big as the Closet Redneck Metrosexual and the other woman put together. She could've had them for mid-morning snack. Very big-boned woman. Very obese. Very hungry. One time I came in and she was eating in the corner. I stood and waited UNTIL SHE FINISHED before I was even greeted. Head down. Eyes focused. The hunger pangs were in control.
She was a treat of a woman though, and that's not a fat joke. It's a personality crack. She spoke very little, which suits me perfectly, actually. I mean, all the talking. Come on. It feels good to get your hair cut--unless it's by Closet Redneck Metrosexual Man--and all this jabber, this chatter, this interaction just ruins the moment. Just let me sit there and veg out. Zone out. Close my eyes and trust you not to jab me in the neck or snip my ears off. Nervous small talk for a tip makes me want to tip less. That's right. I will pay you to NOT TALK TO ME. I'm not a fan of hair stylist gossip, especially in the heart of Mississippi. I don't care about your kids. And you don't need to know where I work. I do my job just fine. Now do yours.
Anyway, so she has no personality, which suits my fancy. Except I don't want rude. Quiet is great. Gentle is nice. Rude sucks. Don't spin me without warning. Don't knock my head over when my eyes are closed. Don't RUB YOUR BELLY on me while I'm sleeping! It's really not a lot to ask. Honest. If you're morbidly obese, maybe cutting hair isn't a realistic option for you. Maybe it's time for a change of profession. If you can't reach my hair without lapping your gut into MY lap, then that's a sign of two things to me and hopefully you.
A. Immediately quit your job.
B. Immediately quit EATING! Take a WALK! Try and float a lap. Do jumping jacks! No. Scratch that. Don't do jumping jacks.
She was so large. She really spun me with her belly. And I'm not lying. I don't like to lie. Sometimes. But I'm not lying. She'd cut my hair on the right side, and then she'd do this Jabba the Hut move and all of a sudden I'm spinning around to the left. It was nauseating on several fronts. That I was a being spun around, one. That I felt like Princess Leia, two. That the entity forcing such violent centripital motion was years worth of meals stored away for a hibernation yet to be decided upon. Three.
And she had no personality. No apology for her technique. And certainly no warning. She was perpetually grumpy. And rude.
Maybe she was hungry.
I can't complain too much. I did go there three times. But I was a college student. A poor college student. It was pay $5 at the Hair Shop of Clinton or walk around with a mullet. And if you weren't careful going in, coming out you might just have one anyway. It's almost enough to make you want to be a Democrat, and that's a strong statement coming from me. Some kind of entitlement for haircuts, some stipend, some grant for college students. I don't care how we solve this problem. I'll be bi-partisan about it. A tax write-off for haircuts, if we're being Republican about it. Let's solve this National Dilemna before it eats at the fabric of our society.
Before SHE eats the fabric of our society.