Sitting and getting my haircut is one of my least favorite things in the world to do. A quick check of my yearbook photos will attest to that (I went through most of 11th grade without getting a single haircut, and being that I had no knowledge of hair products or styling techniques, it was a dark time). While I’ve come around to getting haircuts on a regular basis, I still don’t enjoy it, but I try not to take it out on the stylist giving me a cut.
On this evening, I booked the appointment and put on a smile as I went in. The place was empty except for the woman about to cut my hair. She was on the phone with her mother, and when she finished she sat me down and asked what I wanted. She began buzzing away at the back, and if there was going to be a friendly conversation, here is where it would begin. I can summon a pretty decent RBF (the kids just taught me that acronym) at a moment’s notice, but I didn’t bother. Years of experience have taught me that being difficult when you’re getting a haircut is not conducive to anyone’s happiness. Still, a good stylist reads when one wants to be left alone.
“Are you doing anything for New Year’s?” she began, and I realized my fake smile had worked too well.
“No, just seeing some family on the day of – nothing for New Year’s Eve,” I said, perhaps a little too brightly.
“Oh me too – I’ll probably be sleeping by 8:30!”
I loosened my smile a bit and looked over at the hair products on the nearby counter. She continued working on my hair and I felt bad.
“There aren’t any parties anymore,” I ventured. She made a smart remark that maybe I just didn’t have any friends, to which I gave a weak laugh.
“Do you watch any TV?” she asked.
“Not really…” I said.
“Well what do you do?” she asked with slightly-feigned exasperation, looking somewhat at a loss. “You don’t have friends, you don’t watch TV…” and she laughed. I laughed too.
“God, what do I do?” I mused aloud. “Well, I have a blog that I write in all the time.”
“Oh? What do you write about?”
“It’s mostly just a personal diary…” I said, suddenly and inexplicably shy, and letting the sentence end there.
“I wish I could write. My life is a train wreck,” she replied, and went on to tell me a story of her many kids, her husband, and something to do with a misplaced baby and a broken washing machine.
I told her it sounded much more interesting than my boring life, as she finished up and pulled the cape off my shoulders. I stood up, then bent back down to brush the hair off my shoes.
“Maybe your husband should have a blog,” I said as she rang me out. “I have to struggle to make the most mundane things seem interesting.”
Her next client entered, and she wished me a Happy New Year.
I don’t think I did her story justice. I hope she doesn’t read this. 
