Barber & the Tramp

The morning after Tisha B’Av, I raced over to the salon for a quick cut. It had been a while, and I was beginning to look like one of the hounds that even I’d refuse to date. I was greeted by a handsome stylist, probably gay and in his late-thirties, Hispanic, and sweeter than one of those really big Frappuccinos. Naturally, I wished that he didn’t have to see me as shaggy as I was. By the end of the job, I realized something disturbing about myself: I have a commitment problem.

Hear me out. Who could resist being attracted to someone so hot? His touch said so much with so little. He had a masculine tan that suggested something delightfully forceful about him. The guy was great, taking more time with my head than I had. The conversation was perfect: not too much, but enough that he proved himself normal. One never knows about hair people; some are so eclectic that we can’t help but wonder.

“I haven’t seen you here before.” I was too quickly flattered. What did he mean? Precisely what he said? Or, was I so cute that he’d remember someone like me? Did I make his day? It didn’t strike me at the time that he probably sings that to everyone. Maybe he was hoping for something big?

“I swear, I need a tool belt down here for all my equipment.” That was it. I started to sweat. He was so quick with the scissors and gentle with his hands. I felt that I could really trust this man with my hair, not only now, but in the future.

The service is usually always great; it’s why I go to this particular salon. The price is nice enough that I don’t feel guilty going twice a month. Walking out is the best part. I feel refreshed. On the way home, I thought about how sweet he was when he gave me his card. Slowly, I realized that if I return, I’d have to use him. Otherwise, he might think that I’m a hair whore. I stopped at the thought which was broken by the sound of two taxis annoyingly racing each other up Broadway at 98^th.

The real problem is that if I see him again, by appointment that is, then the price of the cut goes up almost fifteen dollars! I have no choice but to be promiscuous with my hair. I’m too financially insecure to do otherwise. By keeping walk-in jobs as inexpensive as they do, this fabulous salon is forcing me into a life devoid of a commitment with this sexy Latin hairdresser! Grrrr.

This is a corrupt system that threatens the traditional family and the divinely ordained relationship between stylist and client. I suppose I’m all the better for it, really. In the end, going steady with a hairdresser means adding one more person to my already lengthy list of gift recipients in the holiday season. And, who needs that?