As I was way overdue for a haircut, having not had one since September, I found a reasonably priced barber ($11, for the record) in Garden City yesterday and decided that was a sign to get rid of my excess and wild hair.
I was greeted by a young woman who asked, in an odd, demanding way, as though she had a chip on her shoulder, "Can I help you?"
"Uh, I'd like a haircut."
"Siddown," she commanded, ripping a barber's apron off a chair.
I saddown.
She asked how I wanted my hair cut. "Fairly short on the sides, leave me something to comb," I answered. The I added, trying to be funny, "I want to look like my dad."
"Doesn't help me," she responded tersely.
It, uh, wasn't a serious statement. "Well, then, just short with something to comb," I reiterated, cowed.
Don't barbers have to take the same chit chat course as barkeeps? Trying to hold up my end of that deal, I attempted to converse. "Cold day, isn't it?"
"uh-hmm."
"Been cutting hair awhile?"
"Yes."
"Think the Lions'll win tomorrow?"
"Could."
It was then that I realized how very focused she was at her job. I've never seen anyone quicker with the shears, scissors, or a straight razor. Seeing as my eyeballs and ear lobes were in her firing range, I decided to leave her to her work. The fact is she was fast, so much so that I decided I shouldn't risk breaking her concentration. But she was smooth, too. The shears were almost gliding, with no pull at all on my hair. Her scissoring was sharp and crisp, and her job with the straight razor on the final trim work would shame a mob enforcer. Typically that trim work leaves the back of a man's neck a bit red and raw. Not mine, not yesterday.
And the haircut itself was very good, one of the best I've had. I tipped her four bucks. Her lips almost curled into a smile as she said, "Thank you." She was clearly trying to smile. I believe though that she had to fight muscle memory to force even that much of grin.
Just the same, I'll have her cut my hair again. I'll just leave the chit chat at home.
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