That Pre-Holiday Haircut

I enter a corner gas station that has incredibly narrow parking spots. Just before I kill the engine, I hear a loud bang. My car shakes a bit. Yup, the guy next to me just opened his door into my car. As I get out, the driver steps up.

“Sorry man,” he says, “I didn’t see you come in.”

“Okay, I’ll come clean,” I reply, “I stalk people in these ridiculously tight lots. It’s an insurance scam.”

The guy laughs with relief and heads toward the AM-PM. I follow, but proceed to the attached barbershop next door. This is a thing I do – since I’m not picky about my hair, I always try out suspect barbershops, just for fun. One attached to a mini-mart definitely fits the bill.

This wing-it approach occasionally backfires. After my last gamble, a friend stared at my haircut and then said “Whoa dude, did you just join a hate-group?”

A guy sporting a super-villain beard welcomes me into a chair. I tell him I’d like to “keep the same style, but take off half.” His brow furrows. Then he starts talking about different levels of cuts – do I want a “base professional” cut or an “advanced” one? Buzzer or blade? He starts pointing at a collection of photographs on the wall. There must be two-dozen different heads to choose from.

I just want the same style I have, but half the volume.

A few minutes later I agree to some specific styling. What that is, I have no idea.

The barber instructs me to sink my body down in the chair, which apparently doesn’t move. He keeps pushing me down until the base of my head is level with the top of the chair. It’s an awkward position, and entirely uncomfortable. I comply, but a minute later I shift slightly.

The guy straightens quickly. Our eyes lock in the mirror. The guy looks pissed.

“I’ve got a buzzer back here,” he snips, “Do you want to end up with a bald spot?”

I’m tempted to ask if it costs extra. Yes, there’s nothing like being chastised by your barber.

He gets back to work. Then he starts talking about his time cutting hair in New York City. He says “Yes, you don’t have to go to Manhattan for a Manhattan-style haircut.”

“Manhattan style?” I say, unable to resist, “Does that mean the final product looks like the barber was drinking manhattans?”

The guy stares at me in the mirror. No smile reciprocates mine. This guy is ice-cold serious. He shakes his head and goes back to work.

I wonder if he did Trump’s hair and got driven out of New York City as a result.

Ten minutes later we’re done. My hair-professional doesn’t take debit cards, so I go get cash from the gas station’s ATM. When I load into my car I glance in the rearview mirror. This is by far the best haircut I’ve had in years.

But I’m not coming back. I’ll probably revisit the lady from last time. Sure, she spoke only Vietnamese and made me look like a neo-nazi. But she was far more enjoyable to be around.