Hate is a strong word, which my mum says you should never say. She said nothing about typing it.
Unfortunately, to avoid the process, shaving my head myself is no longer an option. I shaved my head when I was 17 or 18 (definitely not when 19, but that's not important right now. Or ever, really). A few weeks after my hair grew back a little (about 3 weeks worth of growth) my mum sat me down for a talk.
"I'm saying this as your mother, never shave your head again"
Mums always have to love their children and, although I've done some trying stuff in my childhood (til now), that was probably the closest mum went to disowning me. As such, I have to heed her head advice.
As I have very thick hair, if I leave my hair uncut for too long, I naturally fashion a head of hair not dissimilar to what The Beatles would look like if they were a Lego man.
For all these reasons and more I, like many of you, must go through the ritual of getting a haircut.
"Hello, do you have a booking?"
"I hope so, or I'm at the wrong place."
(forced polite laughter from both of us. A woman with alfoil through her hair shakes her head with disdain).
"That's the one!"
"Take a seat, I'll be with you in 5 minutes." (it's 11am).
"No probs." (I take the nearest seat, and put it in my ute. I return to the salon and take a seat. Try not to show interest in the women's magazines).
"Sir, would you like to hop up to the chair and I'll get you ready?"
(look around … realise she's talking to me) "Oh, ok, sure."
She puts the black apron on me. I stare at myself in the mirror. I start feeling awkward, like I've got this person sitting in front of me staring at me, waiting for me to do something. I start pulling faces at myself. One particular face is a real good one - it catches me off guard, and I laugh out loud.
I continue to stare at myself. I try to move faster than my reflection. I beat it once, but my reflection proves much more elusive and wins 4-1.
"I'll be with you in a minute, won't be long" (11:20am).
I nod and smile.
I return to staring at myself, trying to out stare myself. It's a draw.
I notice i've been scratching my leg under the black apron, and get insecure as I think it may look like i'm doing something inappropriate under there. I go red.
I overhear an elderly woman paying for her haircut say, "I'll get Roger to pop his head in"
Man, that's the way to do it (I think to myself). Pop your head in, go grab beer, then come back for your freshly cut head.
I'm grinning from ear to ear thinking about that concept as the hairdresser comes over. (11:35am). "Sorry about the wait", she says.
"No need to apologise", I assure her, "I've had my haircut by much bigger than you", I don't say.
|Be specific when you ask for "above the ears"|
"One haircut, please"
55 minutes later, and the 2nd year apprentice is done sculpting her masterpiece. I leave with one sideburn and $10 poorer.
My wife left for the hairdressers yesterday, all excited about getting a new style.
Four hours later she returns with a cute little bob. He stunk of cheap wine and Old Spice. It took two days before we could get rid of him, and a full week before we could get the smell out of the house.
They say it's a week between a good and a bad haircut.