Snip, snip, buzz

Wife laughs at me - often - because I get indignant when she doesn't comment on my haircut when she first sees me (I make it point to say her hair looks nice after her day long trip to the Salon, no matter if it was a quarter-inch trim or a full-blown color and wax and whatever else you chicks get done to your mane). If I'm spending $13 of my hard-earned bucks on my hair I want folks to notice.

Wife can't believe I had long hair at one time. Jesus-length long hair that I refused to pull into a pony tail because I hated that look of frizzy long hair in a pony tail. No matter how tight you pull that mane together, you still can't contain each and every stringy strand. If I needed the rat nest pulled into a pony, I would plaster it down with a enough hairspray you could paste paintings to the wall. If you're out of industrial glue and need something to piece together your Ming vase because a spouse decided it would be fun to reenact Ladanian Tomlinson's latest touchdown run and ball spike, pull out the AquaNet and spray away.

I had my flowing locks hacked off after all my friends did the same. I guess they realized long hair was something for 24-year-olds, at 25 we were approaching the near-dead rocker stage. So a week or two shy of my quarter-century birthday I lopped off the split ends and joined the civilized world once more.

Flash forward nine years and I finally dragged my beer-guzzling ass into the barber shop. More accurate, a Fantastic Sams, which is no different than a Simple Cuts, Great Clips, Friendly Scissors, Barb's Big Buzz or whatever those McDonaldized hair joints are called in your hunk of the planet. Barber shops is where Ward Cleaver and Andy Griffith went for a trim and a shave. I can't do those places; the head cutter's hands move to quick and I'm afraid I'll end up losing my iPod earphone holders (get an anatomy chart to figure that one out, this ain't physiology class).

So, I stop into Sammy's shop - I don't know why Sam is fantastic, I thought the place and my cut was mediocre - for two reasons: 1. It's two blocks away from the Melissa Compound, and 2. I had a coupon. I collect the latter like I used to hoard baseball cards. Wife says "Let's go out to eat," and I reply, "How 'bout Applebee's? I have a coupon." I have coupons for go-kart racing, plays, car washes, pantyhose, and to shops such as Bed, Bath & Beyond and Ulta (Wife stops in, loads up the basket with hundreds of vials - I'm sure it's crack because each vial is that size - and it costs me $100 each time. It's gotta be crack at those prices). If I can save a buck on a $13 hair cut, god damn it, I will.

I like haircuts; the feel of the scissors sifting through the hair, the buzzer tickling the neck (I better watch out or I'll have to charge $19.95 to read this post), it's just delightful. However, being held captive in a chair that is more super market kiddie ride than job necessity and forced to make small talk, well, let's say I'd rather the hair chick just jab me in the ear with the ubersharp scissors. Aside from asking about Thanksgiving and mentioning how busy it seems, I have nothing. I could ask more about her Turkey Day, but I'm afraid she'll think I'm planning to stalk her or seeking a dinner invite. I figure that ain't my business. Neither is it my bees-wax whether she lives around here, is a desert native or likes mustard on her grilled-cheese sandwiches. So instead, I smile at my reflection and wait for her to say "tilt your head forward." That's our conversation, she shouts out directions and I follow like a good soldier. "Yes ma'am. This way? How does this do ya?" That's the extent of our conversation.

Now that I look at it, getting haircut is not that much different than being married.