Blooming

My hair has a way of saying “mild-mannered financial analyst” one day, and then overnight blooming into “That 70s Show.” That is my cue it is time for a haircut.

I don’t enjoy the process. I sit there while a stranger asks me how I want it cut, makes small talk about the last time they had laryngitis, and how I’m not too bald. They snip and cut and then hand me a mirror, spin the chair so with and with a little vector trigonometry I can see the back of my head. I have no interest in inspecting this. I’m not even curious. But every time I pretend that I am a coiffure-critic with a limited vocabulary. I think I have said, “Looks good” every single time since 1986. What I’m really thinking is, “Man, I’m getting bald and my head seems even larger.” They could carve racing stripes and the Mariners logo and I’d say, “Looks good.”

And then I get to pay $15 for the experience.

The most recent “hair bloom day” happened when I was at my folks’ home in California. Not only did Mom notice, but she offered to cut it. Yea! No small talk and no fifteen bucks. She might ask how I want it cut, but since I really have no adjectives for this, nor feelings about it, I decided that when she asked, I’d ask for the “How Mom likes it” special She began the haircut without asking my preference, so I figured I was probably getting the H.M.L.I. special without asking!

It was perfect, it really did look good! Good conversation, didn’t have to align mirrors, and didn’t have to pay the $15. Thanks Mom! If I lived closer, haircuts wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.