Haircuts. They are a part of life. As a child the first one is always traumatic. It must have been the thought of going to a strange place and letting a strange man put a big cape around you and put you up in the air in that big chair and start chopping away.
I remember going to the barber shop as a kid. After the initial shock, it was a nice outing on a Saturday afternoon. I remember several times my father took me down to the local barber shop. There were always several people there waiting, plenty of magazines and comic books, and sports on a small black and white television. I think some of the men there went down just to watch the game so they would have some company. Barber shops were kind of like sports bars, except there were no drinks served, and there was hair all over the floor.
As I got older, getting a haircut started to change. Salons for men and women became popular. I went to several different ones, including going to the stylists school so I could get really cheap (and sometimes really bad) haircuts. I went through several different "stylists" as they were now called. Barbers were few and far between. I got used to the idea of going into a place that was fashionably decorated with large pictures of men and women on the wall, showing the latest hair styles. It was hard to find someone that could do a consistent job on my hair, and over the years the amount of hair on my head decreased, so I felt it was important to take care of the ones that were left. Every time I would go to a new place, you had to get comfortable with the person, make small talk, and finally decide that you had found the person that could give you the perfect cut.
My wife and I have been going to the same place for 3 years now. Each time it was like spinning the roulette wheel. Sometimes you would get a good cut, sometimes you wouldn't want to look in the mirror for a week or two. One day I had to hold my wife back from going in with a clippers and attacking the person who had just done her hair. She finally relented, handed me the clippers. The next time we went back she was no longer working there. (Surprise?) This became very exhausting, and eventually I had my haircut by someone that did a very nice job. I was determined to no let anyone else touch my hair. If I went in and she was not working, I just let my hair go a few more days, or weeks. Most times it was a few more weeks. I would eventually walk in, pull the few thin strands from my eyes, and announce that I wanted a haircut, and only from her. I had finally found the perfect stylist. Floyd the barber could not have done a finer job.
Everything was going just fine. I always got the same cut, my beard got trimmed and my wife would always tell me how nice I looked after I got home. Perfection. My thinning hair never looked so good. What could possibly go wrong now?
Today I went in for my very overdue cut. My hair can't really grow long anymore, it just gets poofy and frizzes. I was relieved to find her working, and soon I was getting all trimmed up. We chatted about kids, family, weather...everything was going fine, until....
"Uh oh, got myself. Hmmm, this one looks bad." she said, stopping abruptly. "I'd better get a band-aid for this."
No problem. Just a nick.
"I've never cut myself this bad. I might need stitches." she continued.
Now my head started spinning. I envisioned her getting faint and passing out. Another stylist would have to call 911 and I would sit there with one half of my hair longer than the other. The drama would continue until the paramedics whisked her off to the hospital. I would have to stand there in that funny bib-apron thing filling out police reports and talking to the OSHA rep that would have to be there. After all that, the worst would happen. Someone else would have to finish my haircut. I felt faint. I thought I might pass out.
"This should be ok." I heard her say as she showed me the bandaged finger. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. The haircut continued, and soon I was looking nice and neat. I got up, thanked her, and got my checkbook. As I was writing the check I wondered, how much was I suppose to tip for maiming your stylist?
I remember going to the barber shop as a kid. After the initial shock, it was a nice outing on a Saturday afternoon. I remember several times my father took me down to the local barber shop. There were always several people there waiting, plenty of magazines and comic books, and sports on a small black and white television. I think some of the men there went down just to watch the game so they would have some company. Barber shops were kind of like sports bars, except there were no drinks served, and there was hair all over the floor.
As I got older, getting a haircut started to change. Salons for men and women became popular. I went to several different ones, including going to the stylists school so I could get really cheap (and sometimes really bad) haircuts. I went through several different "stylists" as they were now called. Barbers were few and far between. I got used to the idea of going into a place that was fashionably decorated with large pictures of men and women on the wall, showing the latest hair styles. It was hard to find someone that could do a consistent job on my hair, and over the years the amount of hair on my head decreased, so I felt it was important to take care of the ones that were left. Every time I would go to a new place, you had to get comfortable with the person, make small talk, and finally decide that you had found the person that could give you the perfect cut.
My wife and I have been going to the same place for 3 years now. Each time it was like spinning the roulette wheel. Sometimes you would get a good cut, sometimes you wouldn't want to look in the mirror for a week or two. One day I had to hold my wife back from going in with a clippers and attacking the person who had just done her hair. She finally relented, handed me the clippers. The next time we went back she was no longer working there. (Surprise?) This became very exhausting, and eventually I had my haircut by someone that did a very nice job. I was determined to no let anyone else touch my hair. If I went in and she was not working, I just let my hair go a few more days, or weeks. Most times it was a few more weeks. I would eventually walk in, pull the few thin strands from my eyes, and announce that I wanted a haircut, and only from her. I had finally found the perfect stylist. Floyd the barber could not have done a finer job.
Everything was going just fine. I always got the same cut, my beard got trimmed and my wife would always tell me how nice I looked after I got home. Perfection. My thinning hair never looked so good. What could possibly go wrong now?
Today I went in for my very overdue cut. My hair can't really grow long anymore, it just gets poofy and frizzes. I was relieved to find her working, and soon I was getting all trimmed up. We chatted about kids, family, weather...everything was going fine, until....
"Uh oh, got myself. Hmmm, this one looks bad." she said, stopping abruptly. "I'd better get a band-aid for this."
No problem. Just a nick.
"I've never cut myself this bad. I might need stitches." she continued.
Now my head started spinning. I envisioned her getting faint and passing out. Another stylist would have to call 911 and I would sit there with one half of my hair longer than the other. The drama would continue until the paramedics whisked her off to the hospital. I would have to stand there in that funny bib-apron thing filling out police reports and talking to the OSHA rep that would have to be there. After all that, the worst would happen. Someone else would have to finish my haircut. I felt faint. I thought I might pass out.
"This should be ok." I heard her say as she showed me the bandaged finger. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. The haircut continued, and soon I was looking nice and neat. I got up, thanked her, and got my checkbook. As I was writing the check I wondered, how much was I suppose to tip for maiming your stylist?
