"How long has it been, a month? Two months? Three months?" She wanted to know how much to take off, and I told her I'd tell her when to stop.
Yes, after waiting much too long (in fact, I think it might be about three months at that), and after a three-day weekend when I did little more than lie around the house watching widescreen blockbusters, I took time out of my busy Tuesday schedule and headed for the mall this morning. I just needed a haircut too badly to wait even one more day.
She was a little distracted. She was new in this shop but an old haircutter from way back. I could tell because she spent my whole time swapping stories with the other cutters. They compared dying methods and weaving techniques and chatted about the differences in clippers — not how they cut, but how much noise they make. I'd like to say that as the son of a barber this was fascinating to me, but it really wasn't.
In fact, I was much more interested in the tales of drunken neighbors and neurotic dogs, but I'd have been even happier if she'd just kept cutting on me instead of turning around and waving the scissors around as she talked. She'd already started working on me before she even remembered to ask how I wanted it cut. Somewhere along the way she forgot how my hair had been parted when I walked in, and I had some serious rearranging to do when she handed me the comb.
As usual, it was a pleasant experience but I won't know until I wake up tomorrow whether it's a good haircut or not. I know it took longer than it should have, but I made it home with only one message waiting for me on the answering machine. That helped me keep my good mood well into the afternoon. On the Tuesday after a long weekend, that's saying something.