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The "B" word
I got my haircut the other day.
I started going to a new place (salon/stylist/barber whatever) a couple of cuts ago. Given the condition my curly lock is in, I'm usually not too particular. I look for places that are convenient, rather than reputable.
Well this new place is real convenient. Like just a couple of blocks around the corner from my office convenient. Like drop in on your way to lunch and get your hair cut convenient. That's actually how I found the place.
The first time I walked in, I was greeted by a lady who asked "Can I he'p ya?". I told her I needed a haircut and asked if they took walk-ins. She looked at me kind of funny, then she said they did, and to follow her. I noticed when I walked in that The Place (I'm just going to refer to it as The Place for simplicity's sake) was a little rough around the edges. No big deal, I was there for a haircut not for surgery.
So anyway, I followed the lady to the back of the shop. We walked through a curtained doorway, into a small, dim room. The room, more of a closet, had one of those old vinyl salon chairs that leans back, a "hairsink" wash basin and a few towels. She tells me to have a seat, then says "Roy will be with you in a sec".
I sit and wait.
I'm expecting the stereotypical male hairdresser to come swooshing through the curtain any second. Instead, this burly, 55+, balding, bearded, heavily tattooed, pro wrestler of a man who looks a lot like one of the Z's from ZZ Top, only meaner, steps through the curtain and says "Ya want shimpoo?". Caught off guard I answer "uh huh."
So I'm sitting in the chair, reclined, my head in the sink getting shampooed. Roy is multitasking. While he's scrubbing my skull, he's making small talk with me. He's also carrying on a conversation with some other guy (who I haven't met. Yet.) about the finer points of motorcycle repair with duct tape. And he's talking to the lady about the "amazing subtle hues of henner" (henna) that the latest, greatest hair color "product" produced. He used the term "product" like a true metrosexual.
He finishes washing my hair(s), drapes a towel over my head, and politely escorts me out to main room of The Place. I say "politely escorts" because he has grip on my upper left arm much the way a jailer would have on a prisoner.
This is where I meet Cutter Tom.
---to be continued---
1/25/2005 09:57:06 PM
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