I got a haircut today.
This isn't exactly a life-changing moment. I've been a mammal my entire life; hair comes with the territory. But, I've lately been pondering, at the barbershop, whether hairdressers are ever tempted, by some sadistic (yet, to me, entirely understandable) desire buried deep in the primeval realm of the human psyche, to leave the job half-finished.
I usually ponder this when I'm at the most vulnerable during the haircutting process. I usually receive a monthly buzz-style cut from a very pleasant, quiet Vietnamese immigrant named Kieu. She speaks so little that I only knew her name from her hairstyling license, which she keeps framed next to the mirror. My haircuts are brief, simple processes. She doesn't need to turn my chair or anything like that. So, facing the mirror, I am treated to ten minutes of various degrees of horror as I watch my mane reduced from a length of approximately 1 inch to something along the lines of 0.25 inches. Sure, it's what I asked for - I like a short, simple cut that, though it leaves me looking like Charlie Brown at the end, will keep me from the barber's chair for another 4 or 5 weeks. But, from the time the clippers make their first attack (always on the upper right side) to the time the gross mowing is over (and all that's left are cosmetic questions concerning sideburns, the widow's peak, and so forth), my mind is awash with:
"She could totally screw me over now... kick me out with the top of my head at a quarter inch, and my sides long and bushy... just like the time I left half the lawn unmowed when it started hailing."
I believe my mind resurrects memories of mowing lawns as a child and teenager to calm my mind - to soothe the soul, and chase away thoughts that, at any minute, Kieu could decide that, generous tip or no (I tip quiet barbers generously, since I generally don't like to talk to strangers or near-strangers), she's had it with Charlie Brown, and toss my half-cut body out on the street - leaving me with a panic stricken run up six blocks to my car in the free parking zone, my uncut hair flowing freely in the winter breeze while my freshly-buzzed-yet-short-and-stiff cranial zones resisting the raw wind. Half of my head cushioned better against the cold than the other, I imagine hyperventilating in the car as I ponder how I will go through life with half of my hair (usually the right half, based on her pattern of attack) a full 0.75 inches shorter than the rest. I imagine that the thought wouldn't occur to me to simply have the rest of my hair cut at a different establishment, as that would require being seen in public with the hair on the left of my head a full 0.75 inches longer than the hair on the right side. Instead, I imagine my back-up plan consisting of:
1. hyperventilating some more
2. going home
3. having Zach shave my head entirely.
But, usually at this point in the haircutting process, Kieu has now cut 75% of the hairs on my head, and the rough course of her buzzing device across the surface of my head has reminded me that my head is far from a smooth, round Charlie Brown-style melon. Based on the flow of her clippers (or lack thereof) over my head, like an all-terrain vehicle, I'm reminded of Phobos and Deimos, the Martian moons. Phobos and Deimos, I imagine, would probably like to hide their craggy surfaces with a nice coating of hair... perhaps even as little as 0.25 inches. I, with a cranial surface most likely to win a contest as the third Martian satellite, should never shave my head. Thus, my imagined back-up scheme has a fatal flaw - I'd have to wear a knit cap for two weeks.
Though, I'd also save money on shampoo.
It is at this point in the haircutting process that I remind myself that Kieu has been nothing but respectful towards me and, perhaps due in part to my generous tips, has never displayed outward distaste at my resemblance to Charlie Brown OR Martian moons. In fact, she's surprisingly never pointed it out.
Thus, my mind begins to imagine other scenarios in which I could be screwed over. Usually, as the haircut is complete by this moment, I get no further than the scenario in which the entire planet loses power forever - and Kieu, with no power to run her clippers or process my debit card payment, must send me home with hairs of two different, distinct lengths on the top of my head. If a buzz cut would only take a little longer, I could no doubt concieve of other scenarios in which the Fates, always humbling in their acts, could leave my hair crippled. But, alas, Kieu is usually shoving my glasses into my hand and pronouncing, "All done!" approximately ten minutes after I first graced her establishment with my large-headed presence.
Thirty seconds later, debit card receipt in hand, I'm back out on the street, pulling a knit cap over my head. Not out of embarrassment, but because my nearly-bald head is always so cold after such self-induced psychological trauma.
At least my knit cap is a comforting shade of blue.
Posted by James at January 8, 2006 05:24 PM
