For years fellow fellas have shook their heads in either disgust or bewilderment when I mention where I get my hair styled and how much it costs. You see I can’t stand barbers (they’d rather shave you bald than do anything else) or the cheap places in the mall (filled with beauty school rejects) so I go to posh salons where they treat me more like royalty than just another head of hair. I also kind of like being pampered. Go ahead, call me names. I’ve heard it all before.

I’m really quite particular when it comes to cutting the hair on this head. I like someone who will talk to me, but not too much because they need to pay some attention with those sharp knives pointing at my vital parts. They should ask me a few pointed questions about myself, and tell an amusing anecdote about themselves, but can allow for some quiet space in between. This isn’t a first date, they have a job to do so there is no reason to worry about a few awkward moments of silence.

I want to be asked about the style I prefer, but I’d also like the stylist to not be afraid to add a few flourishes of their own. And I don’t want any quick whiz-bangery going on either. I love to get my hair cut. I love the smells, the feelings, and the luxury of it all. The sensation of the comb sliding through my hair is enchanting and the warm buzz of the clippers is soothing and wonderful. I hate it when they rush through the process.

Mostly, I love the shampooing. Were it not for that, I’d probably let any old thing cut my hair. There is something absolutely inspiring about someone washing my hair while I sit back and relax in a comfy chair. Add a head rub into the mix and I’m all yours. I think I could have my head rubbed for the rest of my life and never want anything else.

So the deal is this. I used to get my hair cut at a salon right next to where I worked. It was super convenient, and I’d usually pop over during my lunch break. But also, it was a nice salon and the ladies who worked there were lovely creatures. The same lady has been cutting my head for years and years. Recently, she left for another salon, miles away. Initially I decided I’d stick with my salon for the convenience factor and that there were a few other ladies there who had acted as substitutes once in awhile and did a perfectly marvelous job.

A few cuts into this practice and almost everyone I knew was gone. I don’t know what’s happened to this salon, but all of my favorites suddenly disappeared. What remains are new girls whom I do not know, and carry none of the same grace as the other ladies. Ok, grace isn’t exactly the right word, it was more like country charm. But these new gals are more like country, without the charm. One girls wears sweat pants to work – sweat freaking pants! I can’t deal with that.

So now I have to find a new shop. Like an idiot I lost my old stylists number and I can’t remember where she left to. In a pinch I recently went to the mall to get my hair cut. I knew it would suck, but it would be cheap and my hair would grow back. Or so I told myself.

With a sigh I went into Mastercuts for a ten dollar disaster. Walking in, I was immediately accosted by their horrible art deco design straight out of 1960’s Hell. There were two ladies, and one was on the phone so the brown haired one picked me up.

She was very chatty and asked me way too many personal questions. I forgive her for this since it’s our first cut which naturally lends itself to questioning and she hasn’t had time to learn my conversational style. She also cut a little faster than I liked, but it’s a mall and so I again cut her slack.

Halfway in I’m not impressed but it wasn’t as bad as I feared. Then the other lady got off the phone. She immediately, and loudly complained about the phone call. Apparently it was a former customer who has filed a complaint against this lady for a bad coloring. This woman was called a variety of names and there was much discussion about how stupid the whole thing is.

My lady gets sucked into the bad mouthing and there was much to do about how the lady with the bad coloring was told it wouldn’t go well. At one point my stylist said, “I wish the company would just tell those people to go jump in a….

….

lake or something.” And I am not exaggerating on the pause there. It took her a good half minute to come up with that zinger – a lake.

To myself I’m thinking “You can’t think of the closing remark to ‘go jump in a…’ and the customer is the one that’s stupid?”

No longer paying any attention to my hair, it gets cut in a whir and I am whisked off towards the cash register.

All that and no freaking head wash and rub.

Still I tip.

I walk out shaking my head and wondering how long it will take for it to grow back.

Call me what you will, but I’ll stick to my expensive salons.

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