haircut

I have a new guilty pleasure...getting a haircut. I love everything about the experience. The Norman Rockwellish old school chairs, the warm soap on the back of my neck, the gritty sound of the sharp edge of the razor, the smell of baby powder brushing across my forehead on a camel-hair brush, the monotonous buzz of the clippers, the fine mist of the spray as the dew settles on your hair and the sharp shards of hair that fall like pine needles around your chair. That is the essence of the barbershop.

I love going to the Davis Barber Shop. A thin woman who looks 60 normally cuts my hair. I asked for a two on the sides, but she insisted that I needed a three and that a two would look too short on me. Ok...whatever. So I let her cut the three and you know what? I really liked the three. It reminded me of the doctor-patient relationship. Patients come into the office asking about the latest direct to consumer drug ad they saw on television or about some novel treatment they read about on the ny times. Doctors know their patients and know how best to treat the patient's diabetes, flu, etc. Perhaps this is a paternalistic approach and works for some people and not others, but this one time, I really appreciated the fact that she didn't wack my hair off and take my money. That would've been simpler. I would've thanked her and tipped for for giving me exactly what I had asked for. Then we'd both be none the wiser. I'm glad that she intervened and I know I look good.

I wanted to seek her out the next time I needed a haircut, so I asked her what her name was. She pointed to an old sign that said jeanenne. Then she asked me what my number was. Wha... a few seconds later, she pointed to my hair and told me that I was a three.

I can live with that.

Bender