A Cut Above
IT’S HAIRCUT DAY! The rest of the world has told me that it is time. Seven billion people are right. I need it. My head looks like a frightened groundhog. I’ll get the haircut or there will be six more weeks of “Game of Thrones.” My wife said that she looked over at me the other night and thought that the Chupacabra had gotten into the house.
I don’t have as much hair as I used to – at least not on my head. My back still looks like a field of neglected Astro-Turf. I’m not bald by any means. My hairline hasn’t really changed all that much. It is just more of a dotted line any more. When I run my comb through my graying locks I can see the top of my head looking back at me. My head underneath my hair looks surprisingly like a week old cantaloupe.
The last haircut I got was back in December of last year. It was a good one. It was a short one. I looked more “fuzzy” than anything else. My wife, the lovely and coiffure learned, Dawn, had to fight the urge to rub my head for good luck
The place I go to get my haircut is close by. It is next door to the Kroger Supermarket so I can stop and pick up a few tasty items on the way – Shopping and a haircut all in one trip. It is strategically placed next to the “Fly by Night Phone Store” and the Vietnamese Nail Salon – neither of which get much of my business. I already have a phone and I bite my nails.
The Haircut place opens up at 9 AM on the dot. I will be waiting with my nose pressed up against the glass door. I want to be the first in line. I hate waiting while someone else gets a cut. They don’t have any good magazines to read while waiting. All they have is fake magazines that are just advertisements showing what kind of hairstyles they can perform on my head. No, thank you. Most of the optional “Dos” look like they were executed while the Stylist was having a seizure.
All I want done is: Shorter. That’s not too complicated is it? Cut the hair and get it out of my eyes. I hate that. I do not want Bangs. I am not Mamie Eisenhower. Make it short enough so that I can see where I am going. Last year I went through cataract surgery so I could see clearly. I didn’t do that so I would have to look at the world through a beaver pelt.
It doesn’t take very long for me to get my hair cut there. I can walk through the front door, plop down in the chair and I’m heading home in 15 minutes – tops. I can even stop at St. Arbucks and get a coffee on the way.
Now that my hair seems to be growing at a slower pace I am going in for a cut only two or three times a year. For part of the year I admit that I look like I have a small woodland creature strapped to my head, but I’m retired. Who do I have to impress?