My Father's Wise Words

10/7/2014 My father wisely said that the difference between a bad haircut and a good haircut was two weeks. My father’s words were a source of amusement over the years until yesterday. Yesterday, I had to use my father’s words as a mantra for sanity. After getting a haircut and beard trim in London, I have been almost afraid to get one here, in Portland. The London haircut was absolutely magnificent. It wasn’t only the haircut and beard trim itself, it was the entire barbershop experience; the clean linen neck kerchief, the flowing scented over-sheet covering my clothes, the meticulous care in ensuring I had the music I preferred in the background, the hot towel treatment, the straight razor expertise the barber exhibited, the velvet soft brush used to whisk away the trimmed hair, the delicate and patient use of scissors and trimmers to ensure the finest result of the work. Frankly, I fell in love with that London haircut and barber. I would have paid for the visa to have them come to Portland and set up shop. It didn’t matter how much it cost because it was the type of haircut one rarely only sees in movies or hears about from your grandfather (if you are my age) or great grandfather. Sure, the whole London haircut experience took over an hour, but who cared? It was worth every second of comfort, pampered satisfaction, and resultant fabulous haircut and beard trim. It was my last haircut and beard trim before returning to Portland. Yesterday, my loving wife suggested that I go out and get a haircut and beard trim. I truly needed one since my hair was almost ¾ of an inch long and my beard even longer. I was my usual procrastinating self. I took the poke gracefully (that means a grumbled a bit, farted, and left the room) and got ready to go get “the job done”. Inside, I was reliving London and anxious to get the same treatment again. Amy suggested Hair M as the place to go, but I knew they charged a pretty penny for the task. I wasn’t ready to revisit the place where I went on our wedding day. Not quite yet. I couldn’t actually say why, but I wanted to only return to Hair M for a special occasion, and this wasn’t it. Out I went, but I thought I’d try someplace local. We try and support local business when we can, and this seemed like a prime opportunity. I had used Walt’s Barber Shop before to get my seven dollar haircuts, but that’s what they were worth, seven bucks for seniors. Sure, I’d give him eleven bucks because that was the normal price and I don’t want to get four bucks off a crumby haircut just because I’m a senior. Walt also is a right wing nutcase who watches old black and white taped WWII and Korean War movies. He has flags all over the shop and NRA stickers plastered all over the windows. He yammers about the “dumb Democrats”, “lefties”, and “that nigger president” (I know that’s not an acceptable term, but that’s what he says and I won’t be part of the “n word” euphemisms crowd. I also don’t like the “f word” crowd either, but that’s a whole another blog entry. The place was called 4 M Haircuts. I also saw the sandwich sign out front saying, “8 Dollar Haircuts”. My stupid brain said, “Well, it’s got to have more class than Walt’s, he only charged 7.” Now, how dumb can a mind get on a warm morning? Yep, that dumb. I should have noticed that they had angle parking on an access that had no way to go the reverse direction; yep, no outlet, no alley, no established turnaround either. I parked and went inside through the door of a converted private residence barber salon. I described what I wanted and the pleasant, Asian girl listened and directed me to a chair. I sat down and enjoyed the comfort of a slope-back padded leather chair. I heard a sound from behind me. I turned my head and saw a woman coming from behind a shower-curtain room divider. She wielded electric clippers in her right hand and a rather fiendish smile across her face as she burst through the curtains aimed straight for me, as I felt helpless, sitting in that tortuous chair. Her hands were fast, like a garden hedge trimmer. She slashed at my hair and beard like a workmen paid by the minute. The fur flew, and soon my plastic shower-curtain covered body was deep in my own beard and scalp hair. She stabbed my scalp and face with the guides to her trimmer, but she never slowed a stroke as she sheered me like an Australian sheep. I was silly enough to ask if she would be using a razor to trim the hairline, ears, and throat. No razor touched her palm, but a close trimmer did. It burned with heat as she ran it over my ears and neck. I swear she grimaced with demonist glee as she raked about my skin. She even attacked my mustache and the beard right below my lower lip. She slashed the trimmers at my eyebrows. Those tend to be a bit wild, and apparently, they threatened her manhood. The whole assault took less than four minutes. Again, my father’s words came back to me. It wouldn’t matter what she did, it would only last two weeks. I paid her for her services since I was afraid I would be held captive if I didn’t. I left with my tail between my legs and crawled into my truck with the spirit of defeat of generations of Vikings. When I got home, Amy greeted me with surprise and joy. It didn’t take long. My life passed before me, but it all didn’t take more than an hour. My love looked me up and down and accepted my haircut and beard trim as “cute” and acceptable. I knew she did that in an effort to support my choices, no matter what they were. I loved her for that. I loved her for accepting me at whatever I looked like. My eyebrows were even “trimmed” by that dragon lady who slashed at me. Please, I am hoping that I am not being racist by noting that she was Asian, it was just part of the story and if I am being racist, I apologize. That may not have been conscious, but I think I was, indeed, racist. Well, that will be a topic for another entry. I will not go back to that hair salon. I will not return to that local place. I will not return to the place of where the lady slashes and cuts. I also won’t go back to Walt’s where I am treated to 40 to 50 minutes of right wing crapola. Gee, I’m intolerant, too. I will probably go back to Hair M for the next trim. Until then, my father’s words will ring true.