All I Wanted Was A Haircut
It’s not that I have issues around getting my hair cut – it’s just that I keep meaning to get it done, but then I forget to do it. It might help if there was some sort of audible alert that it was time for a trim – like the smoke detectors that beep when it’s time to put in a new battery.
With my luck the haircut alarm would start beeping at three in the morning on a long holiday weekend.
Yesterday morning I made a note to myself: “Haircut !!!” I stuck the note on the steering wheel of the Toyota hoping that I would see it this morning. It worked. I saw the note and transferred it to my phone. While sipping my coffee at St. Arbucks one of the Usual Suspects saw the note and asked me if I was getting a haircut. “Yes,” I said. “Thank you for reminding me.
After being reminded again I had to make a decision – where to go. There are two places nearby that have serviced my head.
“Fantastic Sam’s,” (Which I think is tooting one’s own horn a bit.) was having its usual Monday Geezer Day Discount. Old guys get a couple of bucks off. That makes a bad deal into one that is merely tolerable.
My other option was to go to the new place that opened a few months ago next door to the Kroger’s store. It has a name, I’m sure of that. “Something or Other Cuts” is close, but not it. I toddled over there and saw a sign on the front door. “Between 9 AM and 11 AM – THREE bucks off!” Now, that’s a deal! Sorry, Not-So-Fantastic Sam, but you lose.
When I went into my new favorite haircutting place (I can’t call it a barbershop – there is no revolving striped pole, dusty green old chairs, or a selection of very old magazines.) I was greeted by the only person in the place. She was holding up a handwritten sign.
“Hello, my name is Gretchen. I have no voice today. I’ve been sick.”
It was at that point that I started to back up toward the door. Gretchen waved wildly and pointed at her sign.
“I’m not infectious. My Doctor said so, and that my voice will be back soon.”
Another choice to be made. Put my head in the hands of a haircutting mime, or run for my life and tell Sam that he looks Fantastic, for a dollar more.
Gretchen looked forlorn – all alone with her signs.
“Your Name and Phone Number, Please.”
“Have a seat in this chair.”
She had quite a pile of signs, ready and waiting.
“How do you want your hair cut today?”
She got busy clipping and snipping. It was like watching “Gretchen Scissorhands at work. And at no time did she mime like she was trapped in an invisible box or cutting my hair in a high wind.
It was just a short drive home after forgetting to stop at Kroger’s. I wanted to show my wife, the lovely and tonsorially well versed, Dawn, my new and improved head.
I took off my baseball cap.
“Turn around. Let me see the back.”
I turned slowly, like a Lazy Susan full of deviled eggs.
“Well,” I said. “What do you think?” I could hear crickets chirping. Finally, she spoke –
“Isn’t that the movie where he is a prisoner on Devil’s Island?”
I still think that Silent Gretchen did a good decent OK job. My hair is noticeably shorter. I can see my ears. I admit that I didn’t get a good look at the back of my head. I’ve always been afraid that some disgruntled haircutter might carve in a message back there.
“If you can read this, you’re too close.”
“Wide turns. Stay back 300 feet.”
“Have you seen Dustin Hoffman in Papillon?”