I haven’t written a blog in a while, and this won’t be a long one, but it’ll be enough to hold you over until I can do my next deep ponderings on the mysteries of life.
Today, I got a haircut. This, as I’m sure you might think, is no big deal. But to me, it was. Why? Was I trying some stylish new cut? Am I going to Ryan Seacrest route and trying to look like I’m hosting some huge TV event? No, not really. I went to someone I’ve never had touch my hair before.
For some guys, they could care less who cuts their hair. It’s all about getting it out of your eyes. For me, it’s more than that. Cutting my hair, sadly, is something that I generally have to feel some connection to the person who’s doing it, and I have to know I can trust them to do it. I have gone almost religiously to one of the girls I worked with who I helped put through Beauty school by acting as a test dummy, and in return I’ve been a client ever since. However, Amy works out yonder in Beaverton, and the only times I make it out there are when she’s not working or I don’t have time to get it cut. So, desperate because of the long hair getting into my eyes, I went to the Perfect Look salon next door.
I felt like I was cheating on my wife.
You may think I’m exaggerating, but I am positive I displayed all of the symptoms of a man in an extramarital affair. First thing I did before I even opened the door, I looked around the parking lot to see if Amy was randomly dropping by the store, as if I were worried about getting caught. Satisfied Amy wasn’t there, I slipped in quickly, scrawled my name down on the sheet, and hid my face deep in a random magazine, not really reading the articles, just looking at the pictures. (And no, it wasn’t THAT magazine. Perverts. :-p)
A few minutes later, an Asian lady came out and took me to the chair. I felt awkward as I answered questions as to how I wanted it styled, how short I wanted it where, etc. And then she began to work. She started with the razor, filing down the sides and back to a considerably more manageable level, then took out the scissors and started trimming my 4 inch locks to 1.5 inch ones.
It’s hard to describe exactly what I felt. It was like being at the dentist, only without the stimulating conversation while she worked. It was hollow, like this person doesn’t give a flip about my day, what I’ve been doing, they just want me for my money. I started to feel cheap, to feel used, and to feel guilty. She finally finished cutting, made a half hearted attempt to style it, and then took me to pay. I shelled out a 2.00 tip (reluctantly, as the hair wasn’t exactly how I wanted it but I felt the need to at least be courteous), then, feeling scuzzy from the hairs she failed to brush off of me, I couldn’t wait to get home and shower.
I would never cheat on the woman I marry, but I imagine the feelings are somewhat similar. Part of me almost feels like I should get a dozen roses a box of See’s Candy, go to Amy, apologize for my infidelity and promise to never leave her again.
That’ll probably get a raised eyebrow and a pat on the head, but it might ease my conscience… I hope.
Tags: Humor, Personal, Writing by Andrew Laine
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