His Hair, His Choice?

I get my hair cut by a barber. I've had my hair cut by a barber who was so old he used my ear to keep himself from falling, a barber who maintained a complete shop in his basement, a barber that offered me a free beer while I was in the chair (and then carefully avoided getting any clipped hair into the cup, a true artist), a barber in Coldwater, Mississippi that kept Klan literature available for reading, and even a woman barber (though she was tougher than many men). But always a barber.

For Valentines Day this year, Casey decided I should try something more fashionable. So she made an appointment for me with a stylist. I arrived and told the girl at the counter I was there for my appointment. She checked me in and then asked to take my coat. It's already a different experience. She said Deborah would be with me, I looked around and it didn't seem apparent to me where to wait, so I asked. Casey had suggested I look through hairstyle magazines while waiting and take the stylist a suggested style from the magazine. The only hairstyle magazine was for women and I wasn't feeling like asking for a man’s one. I was the only man in the place. Before I can finish my Vibe magazine article, Deborah escorts me to a rather unsubstantial chair. It has a foot rest, but I don't see any way to pump her foot and raise this thing up. Maybe she's short enough she doesn't need one.

Deborah: "Let's talk about your hair."

Me: blank stare.

Deborah is kind enough to rephrase and even has her own pictures, so that settles that. Next she says. "Okay let's go to the shampoo wall." What? I follow. I figure out she will be washing my hair first. Interesting. No one other than me has washed my hair since I was probably 4. Soon I think, "She’s really serious about that shampoo, my head will certainly be clean after this." I realize shortly that she is likely massaging my head, the oils after that confirm my suspicion. Another interesting twist, as I have not had a massage since physical therapy after breaking my neck. I have to make myself relax, and I have to admit it's pretty nice. Back to the wimpy chair.

Deborah does a nice job cutting and she sure does it differently than any barber ever has. But it takes much longer, my barber could show her how to speed things up with clippers, apparently Deborah doesn't own clippers. Speaking of clippers, where is Deborah's tall glass bottle of combs floating in blue barbicide? Making a bit of conversation, Deborah asks me if my new hair style is a surprise for my wife. I told her, "She made the appointment, gave me a gift certificate, and wrote detailed instructions on the back."

After cutting, it's back to the shampoo wall. This time I can walk confidently, I know where we're going. Dry, style, a quick lesson with "clay" and that's it! Deborah asks me if I brought a coat and what it looks like so she can bring it out to me. I told her it should be easy, it's probably the only Carhartt back there.

I am happy with my experience and new style; we'll have to see about the future. I feel guilty about Rob, my barber; as if I should mail him a check every month if I stop going there. And I don't want to pay for that AND these new expensive hair cuts!