Getting a haircut brings me no joy whatsoever. As long as my hair doesn't get in my eyes, I'm happy. That's why I avoid going to get my hair cut for as long as possible, letting it grow until it's all shaggy. That's the thing, my hair doesn't grow "down", it grows "out". As in sideways, until it looks like a mushroom cap. When I finally drag it on long enough to the point where I say, "I think it's time to get a haircut", I wait another week before I get it done.

Sunday started innocently enough at brunch with Jenn. Afterward, I had no plans on the rest of the day, except maybe laundry, but that was out of the question too, because last I checked, the laundry machines had been occupied the entire weekend. That doesn't come as much of a surprise, because most people probably had two weeks of clothing in their closets, and after spring break, here we are, the end of week two; I think everyone happened to have held out, as I had planned, until the weekend to do laundry. You'd think that I'd learn to avoid the rush, but oh how wrong you are.

Since it was such a nice day out (earlier that morning, I woke up to... FOG! Wow! I've heard so much about it!), those of us who hadn't gone home or off on a trip wanted to go somewhere. Anywhere. The Getty sounded like a good place to just walk around.

In the meantime though, there were a few hours to kill. I thought that since the week was about to start, it was probably a good day to go down to Westwood to shed some hair. I have never had a certain place that I keep going back to (this place, too expensive; another place, the people scare me; yet another, they give lopsided cuts), but in the interest of time, I had this one place in mind--just the same place that I went to a while back. I couldn't remember the exact location, but I walked in the general direction, hoping to find it. Darn, it was closed. Not in a mood to wander, I stared at a map for a few minutes, all the while feeling like a tourist, or like a lost freshman. The map gives lists a bunch of hair salons, but I just wanted to get my hair trimmed, not styled, bleached, teased, tossed, or sauteed (with a light cream sauce). I searched for the most innocuous sounding place I can find, that is to say, a place where a man would feel most comfortable walking into; I would not, for example, feel comfortable walking into Annie's Hair and Beauty Salon, where my optional bikini wax is an extra $35. I settle on Oakley's Barbershop, thank goodness not too far away. When I go in, it's nothing like I imagined: I half expected to see a single old man in his 50's, working out of a cramped 10'x10' cell, passing out five-cent candy to kids with balloons chasing each other down the street until their mom in the adjacent apartment building calls them in for supper. I shed half a tear as my miserable dream was shattered-- then again, it was probably sweat. Yes, in a throwback to the old barbershop days, displays of old barbershop relics such as the spiral-blue-and-red-spinny-pole (I suppose it's called a barbershop pole) and faded signs advertising haircuts for a quarter lined the walls, but instead of the cardboard box that I was looking for, it was closer to what my definition of a salon was (kind of trendy, rather feminine looking man gossiping about who-knows-what). No one paid any heed to me, so I just sat down, waiting to see how the situation would play out. Just then, another customer walks in, as far as I can tell, a regular at this place, and a rather intimidating looking stylist guy--ahem, follicle engineer-- checks him in for his appointment. Did I need to make an appointment? I never recalled any barbershop being so full of themselves that they decided they could be selective with their customers. Well, if I did need to make some kind of prior appointment, I was ready to immediately bust out my cell phone right in front of them and call to ask, "Say, can you pencil me in for... oh, about thirty seconds from now?" Thank goodness it turns out that there is someone taking walk-ins.

It almost sounds shameful, as if I've done something wrong by not calling for an appointment before-hand, but, like some eight year old who doesn't know better, they're willing to overlook my transgressions. They won't like me for it anymore, but they'll tolerate me. I feel like my status as a walk-in has automatically demoted me to a second class citizen in the ever changing world of hair.

"Excuse me, can you direct me to the bathroom?"
"Yes, it's in the back, but make sure you use the one marked 'Walk-ins'", as he gives me a dirty look.

Sitting in the chair is the most uncomfortable part of it all. You are at the complete mercy of the person holding the clippers. One false move and you'll be wearing hats for the next three weeks. And so when they tilt your head to get a better angle to work with, by golly, your head better stay tilted. Particularly for me, I hate the buzzing of the electric clippers as it gets closer and closer to my ear. So I know that it won't cut off my earlobes, yet something about that sound makes me shudder... quite literally, and rather violently too. I swear to you that it's like a reflex, I can't do anything to control it. I could first feel it coming on when I'd get a twinge in my lower back. I got better at ignoring it, but still, every once in a while, I'd jerk to the side, hopefully the side away from the clippers; I'd apologize, then let them get back to work, all the while trying to stop myself from moving around in the chair. When I was younger, my parents brought me to their friend's shop to get my hair cut. I'd fidget, shake, and shift around. The guy would complain, yell at me (in some dialect of Chinese I couldn't understand) to sit still, but I couldn't help it. The guy decided that it was because I was ticklish.

Like a salon, I notice other patrons vivaciously conversing with their hair stylists. That always struck me as a little odd; after all, you're paying the person for their adeptness with a pair of scissors, not for their ability to dissect and analyze the human psyche. But the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. You confide your darkest secrets to the guy who charges $12 per session, whereas with a licensed psychiatrist, you'd probably pay some exponential cost for the same services. Another thing is, your sessions come with no strings attached: if you don't like the advice that you get, you could say, "Screw you, you just cut my hair." Seeing as how the lady cutting my hair was limited to phrases like, "Is long enough?" and "I cut for you, yeah?", I decide that it's best not seek advice about my sex life. Or anything else, for that matter.