I have a system for haircuts, one that’s worked well enough for the past few years. To explain the basic structure of this system, picture how you would manage your hair if you were a sheep. Once every year or two, I’ll swagger into a salon and demand that they sheer my golden locks down to a number four. The standard reaction upon announcing this is concern, the type you might give a unstable co worker who spends slightly too long looking downwards out of a 4 story window. Today was a haircut day.
In my usual fashion I swaggered proudly into the establishment which sits not 40metres from my house. I turned left and headed straight towards the till. To the right of me sat a small statured woman with brown hair and pointed features, she was reading some sort of gossip magazine, I assumed that she was a customer. Behind the till a woman, also reading a magazine, sat staring at me, glaring almost. Neither she nor the colleague stood next to her said a word to me as I approached, and they continued their vow of silence even as I reached the till. Pins had dropped, mice had farted, for minutes the silence was all encompassing, the stare down was of western proportion and it seemed as if no one would break.
To explain, I should tell you that my hair is what most would consider ‘a mess’, in fact my late grandfather once told me that if he had a mop like that he would throw it out. To compound the problem I had just recently, as a mark of consideration for the person about ot cut it, washed my hair, a process which inevitably throws it into a state of panic, curling and frizzing at every opportunity. Now add to these facts that I walk into the hairdressers at half four, a time when they are most likely preparing to head home after a long day of cutting, you begin to see why I was met with such incredulous looks.
The silence had lasted for around a minute, and not liking the uneasy feeling I blurted out “I’m here for a haircut…”
*sigh* “….uh, sit down…”
I could feel the passive aggressiveness being forced down my throat. I sat down anyway, looking slowly around the room. There was a doorway a few metres in front, leading to the magical hairdressing back room, where elves fashion wigs from the fallen hair, and from that room popper a small ginger man. The hairdresser behind the till shouted over to him
“Steve, would you want to cut this gentlemans hair?”
The desperation in her voice was palpable and almost comically obvious. Steve took one look at me, shook his head, then dissappeared back into his room.
I realised at this point that things were getting far too tense, I again blurted:
“…uhm, I want it all shaved off… if that helps”
The hairdresser standing next to the till gasped, her eyes growing as wide as they possibly could, asking in the familiar concerned tone “Are you sure!?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
At this point the woman sitting down stood up, revealing herself as a hairdresser too. All three hairdressers exchanged eye contact with each other, and after what seemed to be a moment of deliberation, perhaps deciding whether I was crazy or not, they instanteneously broke into a a song and dance routine:
“Can I do it!?! Can I!? Can I!!”
They could not decide, and so it turned out that, after an intial period of tension and doubt as to whether my hair would be cut at all, I ended my yearly sheering with 3 hairdressers taking turns to leave their indellible marks upon my head.
