Hair: The Non-Musical

I had to get a haircut the other day. I don't go to salons because it's been my experience that my hair looks like a light brown pile of hay no matter how much I spend. Places named Expressions or Gabriels on the Green give you bottled water and all of the stylists look like models, but it isn't worth the extra cash for such amenities. I usually go to places in malls and shopping centers called Style Shack or Hair Hut or Cut-o-rama. These are the places the bronze medalists of the cutting olympics bitterly ply their trade. There's no bottled water, only broken dreams. At least there are plenty of scissors around to cut the desperation.

I wasn't in the mood for angst, so when I saw an actual barbershop in the upper-middle class neighborhood where I rent, I thought my prayers had been answered. I just had to avoid barbershop pitfalls such as the old guy who'll compare your scalp to Franklin Roosevelt's and the dreaded bald man named Curly who's rumored to have a collection of human ears. I was very surprised when I walked through the door and was greeted by an attractive young lady. She asked me if I needed a haircut and within seconds I was sitting in the barber chair.

I asked for a shampoo and cut and everything went well until the walk back from the shampoo chair. That's when this girl, who stood about 4'11", became fascinated by my height. It wasn't a good fascination, though. It was a "You belong in a travelling freak show" kind of fascination. She actually made me stand next to her in front of a full-length mirror and loudly shouted "OHMYGOD...I don't even come up to your shoulder." The problem was I looked into the mirror and not only saw tall vs. short, but fat vs. skinny and ugly vs. pretty as well. I thought for a moment I saw Brown vs. the Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas, but that was probably due to sleep deprivation.

My haircut didn't turn out so good, maybe because she had to stand on her tip-toes the whole time. She told me the price - fifteen for the style, which is about average - but eight dollars for the shampoo! Eight dollars? What did they use to wash my hair? It couldn't have been water. It must have been Jessica Alba's "love juices" or maybe the Virgin Mary's placenta. What kind of place calls itself a barbershop and charges eight bucks to dampen your scalp? My grandfather, who never paid more than five dollars for a haircut, may still be spinning in his grave.

To summorize, it cost me twenty-three plus tip and I look like Chet the asshole brother from Weird Science. Next time I'll go to The Clip Joint, located between the Dairy Queen and Bath and Body Works. I'll have to listen to details of a messy divorce and/or loveless marriage, but at least I won't have to sell my bone marrow to pay for a lousy shampoo.