Wednesday, September 26, 2018

The story of a haircut

Photo by Ewout Paulusma/Unsplash
This morning, I took an ’aircut, the “h” being silent almost silent in my case. The hairdresser spent a ridiculous amount of time, nearly half an hour, sipping a cutting chai and snipping the top of my head. Being a weekday morning, there was just me and another guy in the saloon and plenty of scissors around. As he fussed over my hair, I could picture him saying under his breath, “Here’s one, oh, and there’s another,” and do a fist pump. I’d never seen such optimism in a barber. I took it as a positive sign.

I looked at him in the mirror and thought to myself "Maybe, just maybe, he can see something I can't" and for a moment hope sprang out, and then I looked at the few wisps of hair — the rear guard — paragliding through the air and landing on my blood-coloured apron. The last of the Haircans. One of them said to me, within hair’s breadth, “Don’t worry, General, some of us are still holding up there. We ain’t going down without a fight,” saluted smartly and was gone.

And then the hair-cutter patted my head with both hands and said, unintentionally, I think, “Don’t use a comb. Pat your hair in place like this, thup, thup, thup. It will seem as if you’ve more hair than you do.” I never thought of that, you know. You get a haircut and you get a hair-tip. Since it's of no use to me, I'll put it on the market.

Well, at least something came out of my hairsplitting adventure.

No comments:

Post a Comment