Thursday, March 8, 2007

My Life with the Thrill Kill Cut

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I got my hair cut today--it's been about 3 months since I'd had one. I was a yeti. I'm not one of those people who are lucky enough to get length when their hair grows out--I get big poofy bulk. It's crazy. But I also realize that as I'm skidding into my mid-thirties that I'm remarkably lucky to have a full head of hair. Plus the fact that I'm relatively grey free. It's good--my cutter was fast and efficient: cutting in a little texture, removing some dead length, but most importantly, cutting out the bulk. I look human again. Huzzah. Brian will be pleased--tho he was kind enough not to tell me how much he hated it when I was there a couple of weeks ago.

While I was driving to the appointment I was thinking about a hair cut I had a couple of years ago. I needed a quick cut for a first-quarter meeting in a couple of days so I ran to a place that was near the office that could work me in right after I was leaving that day. So I get there and they tell me to have a seat. And then, Burke (let's call him Burke, shall we?) comes in and takes me to his chair.

Burke was probably in his mid-to-late-thirties. Tall, skinny, a little bronzed and dirty-blonde hair that had been "accented." The color match was good--but the highlight placement was just a little wonky, blocky and chunky. He was wearing a pair of eggplant colored slacks and a sort of hooker green shirt. He also had a wedding ring, a square gold nugget ring on his right hand and a thick herringbone chain around his right wrist. Needless to say, I was a little overwhelmed by the combined effects. But I needed this cut and I sat down and got straight to it--spelling out exactly what I wanted. What guards I wanted for the clippers, no sideburns, etc etc. He stood behind me, working his hands through my hair nodding. He proceeded to cut.

About three minutes in he starts talking to me, asking me where I'm from, what do I do, etc etc. I go along--giving short answers. I don't go to talk. I go to get my hair cut. When he finds out where I'm from, he starts talking about how his brother-in-law has a fishing camp at a lake there. Asks me if I know the area, etc etc. Then he starts talking about how he likes to go with friends to the cabin and ice fish. Had I ever been ice fishing? No, no I hadn't. (I didn't think the ice got thick enough here to support one of those shacks, but whatever.) He proceeds to go into detail about it, lisping and clipping away, pressing his groin into my shoulder.

Then he starts talking about the superbowl. How he's looking forward to it--again he mentions his "friends" and his excitement at getting together with them. Did I have plans? No. And he repositions his crotch to press in between my chest and upper arm. The rest of the haircut is a blur after that. I just started looking straight ahead and my answers got shorter and shorter. I just wanted out of there. Finally the cut's done. He's behind me again, rubbing some sort of product through.

Sometime in my twenties I grew a soul patch. And I've just sort of kept it off and on since. At that time I had it. So, Burke's behind me working the product through "I really like your jazz patch." He reaches around with both hands and strokes it and the lower part of my face. I never made eye contact, just said something about how I was running late and really needed to go.

I've had bad haircuts. I've had men cut my hair and women cut my hair. I've had women pressing their boobs into me. I've never had a man do that.

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