The guy who cuts my hair has a shop in the concourse of the building I work in. He’s generally reliable if somewhat difficult to understand.
English is not his first language but this doesn’t stop him, no siree; he natters on as though he really might be saying something. There’s the accent to contend with too, the kind you associate with Barbara Walters. I can easily almost understand about one eighth of what he says.
His clothing choices show him to be daring and unafraid of colour and form fitting fabric. When I think of the blisters on the fingers of those poor kids trying to get the stitching just so, well, never mind, I don’t want to make this about me.
He always asks my opinion of the big game or whether I’ve been hunting or fishing lately which he says loves to do. In my head, the reply is always the same: you know you’re gay right?
Yesterday, I stopped by, said hello to his scissors and then went back to work. A co-worker said to me what happened to your hair? That can’t be good right? It looks longer in the back, like they missed a spot. I got a second opinion from the hair goddess who sits next to me and she confirmed there was indeed a length issue.
I went back down and cut in on his next victim’s appointment; he had just finished prepping her and she sat there wet haired while I tried to discreetly let him know there was a problem. After surveying the problem, he said maybe you should put more gel. I said no, two people asked me what was wrong with my hair and I think you should even it out. He said okay like I was a moron but then sat me down and fixed it in a few short snips.
It could be that he’s blind now like my old barber but it’s probably just that he was daydreaming about ice fishing season. It’s only a few months away.