I hate getting a haircut. Ever since my grandfather died on the day I got a haircut in high school I’ve had an aversion to it, which seems at odds with the high-maintenance/perfectionist persona I pretend to peddle. I also never take it too seriously, and thus far it has always grown back, so I’m perfectly content to run into Supercuts once a month and hope they do a quick ten-minute job just cleaning up the back and sides.
Yesterday morning, I worked up the courage to get a cut before the holiday season begins in earnest, and found an available stylist who eagerly took me into his chair, beginning with some small talk on what my weekend plans were.
Then, the assault happened. As chunks of gray hair fell about my shoulders, this person chose violence:
“I hope my hair comes in like yours when I’m old.”
I managed to temper the shock with a bit of genuine laughter as he hurried to try to put it a better way.
“I meant the gray looks great! I just mean I hope my hair looks that good when…”
“When you’re old,” I finished when he paused. “Yeah, I got it.”
Out of shock, exasperation and the realization of reality staring at us both from the mirror, I laughed. Richly and genuinely. In self-defeat, self-acknowledgement, and self-effacement. After I paid for his services and unsolicited commentary, he had the audacity to give me his business card.
And that was the day there was blood on the barber shop floor.
