So . . . Saturday started as it often does — late. But no excuses . . . up & at ’em, coffee made, coffee consumed, virtual crops tended, virtual cows milked, virtual Mafia rivals whacked, PTA shower, teeth brushed, hat on and we’re off. Not a moment to waste, not today, today is Saturday — Haircut Saturday and on Haircut Saturday if you’re late you wait.
Shari clutches her photo of Ellen with the Short Hair and tries to recall the name of the stylist who successfully got “the look” the last couple of cuts. We could pick her out of a line up — if the line up was at Fantastic Sam’s — but the name? Not so much.
You’d think we’d remember, because of the ordeal and all. And oh what an ordeal, that first Ellen with The Short Hair cut. Two solid hours of snipping & clipping, referring, clipping & tugging, referring, product application & tugging, referring . . . rinse and repeat. Shari had a headache for two days solid, must’ve been worth it, the hair was pretty fabulous. Now the second go-round was a good bit easier. A little muscle memory, a fresh photo and a 90 minute personal best. The hair must’ve been grateful . . . it still looked fabulous.
Of course finding a good stylist at the kind of place I’m willing to visit, pretty much a cheap kind of place, is pretty difficult — risky at best and life altering at worst. Then finding a good one at the same kind of place I’m willing to visit, pretty much a cheap kind of place, more than once or twice is . . . well it’s pretty much unheard of . . .
There was this guy a few years ago . . . he was fan – effing – tastic with the scissors, the razor and the shears. He had the talents typically seen in the fancy-pansty joints that serve wine & cheese, discreetly hide away the blue comb juice and look down their collective noses at any credit card made from a (pretend) base metal or a (pretend) semi-precious stone. He was young, trim, tidy, absolutely fabulous and as time would tell harboring some unseen but profound damage. He was around long enough that we started to take it for granted, stopped worrying about what we might find on Haircut Saturday, even started to anticipate the wonder and grace of the next encounter. You see he was not the sort to look at a photo for reference . . . no he was the sort to look at your face for reference, to ask forgiveness not permission and every time, every time wildly exceed your hair expectations, hair hopes and hair dreams. It was pretty great — I even let him cut my hair . . . My Hair . . . once. We should have known there was a problem, our collective gut was screaming “what the Hell is this guy doing here? . . . here! He’s too good . . . it can’t last . . . it can’t be real . . . no way this can be real!”
And then he was gone. Not gone like most of them, on to the next place, the next town, uptown to the fancy-pansty joints or downtown to cheaper chair rent. Just gone. Vanished. Not a trace. No one was talking, no one knew him. He was just gone. When the story broke it was one of genius squandered — some hazy tale of Jail, a domestic with a domestic partner, a cat fight in a bar, money begged and borrowed and then just gone . . . banished to the land of Talent Foolishly Wasted. Its possible, of course, that the others, those of ordinary talents of mediocre vision, could’ve jealousy, cruelly extinguished that brilliance leaving sordid and murky tales to cover the betrayal. Point is there’s no way to know, not for sure, because he’s gone. Just gone.
But I digress . . .
So . . . here we are. Shari with her printout, me in tow and familiar stylist no more. And one more time, neither the first nor the last, she is accepting an uncertain fate. A fate that includes a stranger and a pair of scissors. Will she use the thinning shears or a razor, will she pouf it all up until it looks like Amadeus wig hair or let it fall naturally, will she push product or prattle on about her boyfriend (girlfriend) ex-boyfriend (ex-girlfriend) kid (dog) or whatever . . . you just can’t know until it’s far too late and the first cuts are made and the first locks of precious hair, so nurtured and cared for, fall dead to the floor. Will it be a brave “thank you it looks . . . it looks . . . nice” through tight lips and leaky eyes or an enthusiastic “thank you it looks . . .nice . . . it really does.”
I suppose only time will tell.
As for my hair . . . I’ve been letting Shari and her clippers keep me short and even and tidy. No, maybe it’s not the most stylish of cuts, but I like it. It’s easy and pretty much removes any wasted and silly hair vanity — and to me that counts for something. It’s cheap and surely that counts for something. But above all else, I always know I’ll have the same stylist . . . the only one I can trust and depend on to be there any time, every time. And to me . . . well . . . that counts for everything.