I know it’s only Monday, but the most irresponsible thing I’ve done so far this week is riding my bike home with a freshly sharpened hatchet in my backpack…
Yeah, it’s a total coincidence that I put my hatchet back together the same day I wore my chainsaw shirt. It had a sort of John Henry feel to it.
If you’ve seen me in the last few weeks, you may have noticed that the top of my head has been getting a little…ummm…shitty. Today I decided it was time for a haircut. This is a big deal because I was going to actually go to a barbershop and pay somebody to cut my hair for me. Since high school, I have probably paid for a haircut once, maybe twice. (Special thanks to Kaylee, Gina, Ashlinn’s friend Anne and Ashlinn herself for donating time to my trimmings.)
I stopped to get coffee and then made my way to Old Town Ballard. By the time I got to the barbershop, which employs almost entirely women, I’m freaking out. My brain will not let go of the fact that I should feel improper about these actions. Paying somebody else for something that I should be doing myself? This is filthy. My brain is treating this like I am at a bordello. My legs are weak, my brow is sweating and I might have a partial.
I write my name down on the waiting list sheet. Next to my name, they ask me if I have any preference. I pause for a moment and decide writing “brunette” would be inappropriate. I sit down and wait for them to call my name. When they do, I look up at my barber…a brunette.
She leads me to my chair right next to the window and the first thought that pops into my head is “What if somebody walking by recognizes me!” I’m such a freak.
I make nervous small talk, and probably embarrass myself on multiple levels. I eventually shut up and let her do her thing. I notice her styling license and almost tell her she has a pretty name, then I realize that is the most whorish thing to say to a girl that is providing you with a service.
I guess the whole experience peaked in absurdity when she asked me if I wanted to rinse off. I had no clue what this was going to entail, but I said yes anyways. She could have asked me if I wanted to go out back and take turns punching orphans and I still would have said yes. Turns out “rinsing off” is exactly what it sounds like. There are only sinks in the back room, so you have to walk from your chair to the other side of the building while still wearing your reverse cape. It really seals the deal to make you feel like everyone else is watching you.
In the end, I paid my $10 plus tip and left with a colder scalp and the feeling that I should be ashamed.
It also could have been due to my sensitivity to caffeine.
Ashlinn is mopping the floor and I’m doing the dishes.
“It smells like God’s bathroom in here” I said.
“God doesn’t have a bathroom” she says.
“God has to poop somewhere.”
“God doesn’t poop.”
“Oh yeah? How do you explain Massachusetts!!!!”
I realize this could actually end tragically, but it’s a pretty awesome story anyways. Give it a read and ponder how this didn’t happen to me as a child.