What Do You Do When Your Barber Goes Rogue?
I know everyone thinks getting their hair cut is a little scary but I really think getting your hair cut is scary. I was never a big hair experimenter as a kid, you know? I cared more about the experience than the product. I always went to those places where you could play video games while the barber worked, or any place where I could be in and out in fifteen minutes. I rocked the bowl cut for a while, I got any number of other nondescript cuts for a while, and then I stopped getting my hair cut all together! I touched on this a little bit when I told you guys about my trusted barber moving away, but I have since gone out and had my hair cut; and yeah, it was fucking terrifying.
I had a specific cut in mind, and this was going to be my boldest hair cut of all time, by far. As not a bold-haircut-guy, I took all the necessary precautions. I had photos, descriptions, and note cards; I learned how to describe what I was looking for in other languages (and also with the photos), and I went in.
I show the guy two possibilities, one’s safe, and one’s not. He says, “Well which one it gonna be?” I freeze. “This one” I say, pointing to the bold choice, “you think that will work?” The guy takes one look at the photo and scoffs, “I can do better.”
Well that’s fucking great but I don’t want better. I want that. I want the photo. No need to do anything crazy, just a perfect recreation of that will be fine.
Beyond that, I’m concerned with the fact that he’s only momentarily glanced at one of the eight photos I’ve prepared for him. “Maybe he’s seen the show and knows what I’m talking about”, I think. So I ask him, “you a fan of this show?” “I don’t watch TV”, he replies. Well fuck. Now this guy’s just fucking winging it. Well, he's gone rogue and I just give up.
The guy launches into a monologue about how he makes everything by hand: his furniture, his tools, his decorations, and I all I can think about is the fact that this guy is misreading every single one of my haircut commands. I keep on shouting at him with my eyes that I’m not a brave hair person, that I’m a hair coward, but I learned long ago that nobody can read my eyes- so I’m fucked again!
We reach a pause in the madness, “You like it?” he asks me. “Yeah it actually looks pretty good” I reply to him, because it does, remarkably, look ok. “You’ll like it even more when I’m done with it,” he shoots back as the madness resumes and he takes seemingly random shots at my head with a buzzer in one hand, and a pair of scissors in the other, while simultaneously showing me that all of his cords are held together with rubber bands, because that’s how handy he is.
Finally I emerge from the chair shell-shocked but with one of the better haircuts I’ve received. My new best friend barber triumphantly shouts, “Welcome to the club!” as he whips off my barber cape with a flourish and ejects me from the chair. I walk out the door a new man, and totally unsure of what just happened.
The experience was exhilarating, terrifying, and mesmerizing all at the same time, similar to how I imagine one would feel first seeing the Northern Lights, or doing crack. Now that I’ve had a taste, can I go anywhere else? I’m not sure I’ll ever get the same hair cut twice from this fella, but maybe a barber who wings it works as well as a barber who sticks to the script. Maybe I want a guy who sees the Mona Lisa, doesn’t recognize it and says, “I can do better”. I love the swagger, I love the cockiness, I love the refusal to comfort me, and as a hair-coward, maybe I need a barber who’s got the hair confidence of three lions. I don’t know whether I left that barber in a sweat because I was nervous or because my blood sugar was low, but I guess I’ll be back to find out.
