Going to Turkey for a Haircut
I went to the mall today at lunch to get a haircut, and I'll bet you $2.00 that I can make a blog post out of it.
Why? Well, for starters, my "hairmaster" was just in from Turkey:
What on earth does that have to do with anything? Well, for people born in Turkey English is probably not their first language. In fact, it might not be their second language either. Communication aside, I feel the need to preface this blog entry by saying that my hairmaster was a very nice, fit person who has been working in the states for several months after moving here to be with his close family, leaving two brothers and a sick father behind. All in all, it is very much "The American Dream", just add electric clippers.
Now, to discuss this process we call "the hair cut"... To protect his privacy, I have decided to change my barber-du-jour's name. We will need to use something generic, as I do not want to pre-jade your opinions of this experience, I want the facts to stand for themselves. TO keep it fair, let's use... "Clipper-Wielding Maniac", or CWM for short.
All haircuts begin with some small talk, a little "how are you", "How do you want your hair cut today", stuff like that. Sometimes, haircuts begin with a nubile young woman washing and shampooing your head, Or, sometimes, as was the case today, it was the 70 year old, blind, arthritic grandmother of said nubile young woman who shot hot water on my face before sending me off to the hair experimentation laboratory.
Once in "the lab", my specific small-talk went something like this:
CWM: Hello! How are you today!
Me: I'm good. How are you?
CWM: That's nice, Ok? How do you like your hair?
Me: As short as you want, I'm going on a cruise and want to be cool.
CWM: buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz
Yup. I said it. "As short as you want". Now, there were several, perhaps, more preferrable things I could have said, which I did not say. Here are a few potential alternatives, since hindsight is 20/20:
1. Please, I don't want a haircut. Just, if you would, stick me in the eye with a scissor.
2. I was hoping, perhaps, that you would let me sit here and I would cut my own hair.
3. If you do not mind, take this $25.00 and I will go home with no hair cut whatsoever.
But, no, I said "Make it as short as you want!"!
No doubt what he heard was:
"Hi, I'm a big, Hawaiian-shirt-wearing goofy American. I have a big grin on my face and want to do nothing but rub in the fact that I am going on a cruise for a week and you aren't. Please, let me close my eyes, while you take a sharp cutting instrument and wave it around my head. My wet head. Yes, please plug that 1910-era thing into the wall socket and rub it all over my wet head. By the way, I will give you a big tip if you make me cry when you are finished."
Now, it is, of course, arrogant of me to assume that a communication gap was solely to blame for this unfortunate event. There is, of course, another more... universal... reason for this.
CWM was almost completely bald.
I don't know why a person devoid of head-hair would work in the hairmastering industry. The only reasons I can think of involve fetish and/or revenge. It has been said that all artists make art in their own image, and CWM is certainly no exception.
Alas, pointing out the irony of receeding clippers is far less humorous then originally thought, so, let's just cut to the chase...
So, without further ado, I present to you my "new vacation look":
I'm sure it will all grow back, given a few years and some kind of steroid cream.
-Ed
ps. Apparently, Linda loves the look.
Why? Well, for starters, my "hairmaster" was just in from Turkey:
What on earth does that have to do with anything? Well, for people born in Turkey English is probably not their first language. In fact, it might not be their second language either. Communication aside, I feel the need to preface this blog entry by saying that my hairmaster was a very nice, fit person who has been working in the states for several months after moving here to be with his close family, leaving two brothers and a sick father behind. All in all, it is very much "The American Dream", just add electric clippers.
Now, to discuss this process we call "the hair cut"... To protect his privacy, I have decided to change my barber-du-jour's name. We will need to use something generic, as I do not want to pre-jade your opinions of this experience, I want the facts to stand for themselves. TO keep it fair, let's use... "Clipper-Wielding Maniac", or CWM for short.
All haircuts begin with some small talk, a little "how are you", "How do you want your hair cut today", stuff like that. Sometimes, haircuts begin with a nubile young woman washing and shampooing your head, Or, sometimes, as was the case today, it was the 70 year old, blind, arthritic grandmother of said nubile young woman who shot hot water on my face before sending me off to the hair experimentation laboratory.
Once in "the lab", my specific small-talk went something like this:
CWM: Hello! How are you today!
Me: I'm good. How are you?
CWM: That's nice, Ok? How do you like your hair?
Me: As short as you want, I'm going on a cruise and want to be cool.
CWM: buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz
Yup. I said it. "As short as you want". Now, there were several, perhaps, more preferrable things I could have said, which I did not say. Here are a few potential alternatives, since hindsight is 20/20:
1. Please, I don't want a haircut. Just, if you would, stick me in the eye with a scissor.
2. I was hoping, perhaps, that you would let me sit here and I would cut my own hair.
3. If you do not mind, take this $25.00 and I will go home with no hair cut whatsoever.
But, no, I said "Make it as short as you want!"!
No doubt what he heard was:
"Hi, I'm a big, Hawaiian-shirt-wearing goofy American. I have a big grin on my face and want to do nothing but rub in the fact that I am going on a cruise for a week and you aren't. Please, let me close my eyes, while you take a sharp cutting instrument and wave it around my head. My wet head. Yes, please plug that 1910-era thing into the wall socket and rub it all over my wet head. By the way, I will give you a big tip if you make me cry when you are finished."
Now, it is, of course, arrogant of me to assume that a communication gap was solely to blame for this unfortunate event. There is, of course, another more... universal... reason for this.
CWM was almost completely bald.
I don't know why a person devoid of head-hair would work in the hairmastering industry. The only reasons I can think of involve fetish and/or revenge. It has been said that all artists make art in their own image, and CWM is certainly no exception.
Alas, pointing out the irony of receeding clippers is far less humorous then originally thought, so, let's just cut to the chase...
So, without further ado, I present to you my "new vacation look":
I'm sure it will all grow back, given a few years and some kind of steroid cream.
-Ed
ps. Apparently, Linda loves the look.
posted by Ed at 2:26 PM
1 Comments:
As long as Linda loves it, you are good. Now if she had screamed, lit herself on fire, and thrown herself through a glass window; you would have been in trouble.
Hopefully my haircut for $12 today will be not NEARLY as bad... and I don't get the old guy.
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