Rip Van Winkle Gets His Hair Cut
I went in for my bi-yearly haircut today. In the old days I’d haul in to Stanwoodopolis at Carl’s Barber Shop for a clipping and gossip and heated debates. Sadly, those days are long gone and Carl’s retired from his long tonsorial career. Back then I didn’t mind waiting for a turn in the leather swivel chair, mostly an excuse to put a finger into the political winds.
Now I’m forced to go to the chain haircut joints. Salons, I guess they call em. They’re quick, painless and anonymous. They take your phone and name, but not for socializing, strictly for data-mining, frequency of visits, favorite hair gel maybe. At the door of Great Clips I was asked even before I took my hat off if I’d made an Online Appointment. No, I said, do I need one? Not at all, I was told.
But … a couple of folks who had made an online appointment but who hadn’t arrived just yet, were before me. Be about 20 minutes. “Do you have a cellphone,” my would be stylist asked, telling me next visit I could be one of the favored few. Wouldn’t have to wait 20 minutes next time. Mrs. Jenkins, my first grade teacher, used to make her point to us ignoramuses in the exact same sing-song voice. I didn’t like it then and I sure as gel didn’t care for it 60 years later. Call me irascible, but I’m not sitting in the chrome and mirror sterility of a chain haircutting factory more than 20 seconds. Twenty minutes is inconceivable. I mean, look at the magazine rack. Us and People? Kill me with a scissors now!
I headed for the exit, heads newly coiffed turning to ogle this ogre. “Will you be coming back in 20 minutes?” my headhunter asked, sensing customer dissatisfaction. I said no. “It’s only 20 minutes,” she explained, obviously figuring since I’d waited 6 months for the next haircut already, 20 minutes was a blink in my tonsorial universe. “Come back and see us again,” she said, half a question. “I will,” I said, “soon as I get a cellphone.” She knew — and I knew too — I’d have hair down to my toenails by them.
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