THE HAIRCUT

I got my haircut last Friday. To most of you that won’t seem like such a big deal. But those of you who know me a little better will probably be amazed that it happened and more amazed that I’d be telling anyone about it. I haven’t had an actual haircut in two and a half years. I had the occasional trim where my wife or I would cut some small pieces of my flowing locks so as to clear my vision or keep the food going into my mouth hair free. But my hair was long and a particular part of a large set of personal vanities.

What prompted this rash action, you may ask? And if you won’t ask I’ll ask for you. (That’s what’s known as a rhetorical device, for all you fledgling writers.) The answer is heat and bugs. For several weeks we have had some hot and muggy weather. When I would go out on my daily walk or when I would be outside doing yard work, like most people, I would sweat. Sometimes I would wear a sweat band thing around my head. But long hair, at least in my case, made the sweat pour on down. Back of my neck would get dirty and gritty. (Name that tune) And it seemed that the more sweat on and around my head the more those pesky little bugs would be attracted to me. Going outside became a real ordeal.

Now I’m a clean guy. My grandkids often say to complete strangers, “He may be old but he’s very clean.” And they’ll say it with an authentic English accent. (Name that movie) So having a sweaty head and swarms of bugs following me around was disturbing. After long and really annoying (for her) discussions with my wife about where to get a haircut, and how much of a haircut to get, I made a decision. My wife agreed even though it was at her suggestion all those years ago that I started growing long hair. So I headed over to a local barber shop called “House of Hair”. There were three barbers all sitting around waiting for customers. When I entered the shop a little polite discussion started. “You take him” the first barber said to the female barber. “No, you take him” the female barber said to the youngest barber. “No, it’s your turn” the young guy said to the old barber. I was starting to think that all this inter-barber courtesy was really some sort of indication that no one wanted to cut my hair. But they finally settled on the young guy by drawing straws and I was seated in his barber chair.

As is customary, the barber asked me how I wanted my hair cut. So I took out a picture of Mel Gibson and handed it to the young fellow. He told me that my hair really didn’t have the right texture for that kind of cut. So then I reached into another pocket and took out a picture of Regis Philbin. The barber said I didn’t have enough money for a haircut like that. Finally I told the barber to just shorten it up a bit all around, but I didn’t want to end up looking like my two brothers. He asked if I had a picture of them and of course I did. So the haircut, which took almost two hours, turned out pretty well. Somehow the tonsorial artist managed to cut out all the dark brown hair leaving only the gray. I paid him an amount nearly equivalent to my social security check and I went on my way.

My wife came home from work and was ready to dial 911 to report a break-in until she realized that it was her newly shorn husband cooking her dinner. She looked my head over carefully and pronounced it good. Other family members seemed thankful that I had given up my hippie like hairstyle of the past couple of years. The bugs are kind of disappointed. But last night just before bedtime, my wife said “Maybe you could let your hair grow again. Only this time do a mullet thing like those country singers from the eighties.” Sometimes I think she’s just using me to enhance her fantasy life.

Have a fine day.