My hair cutting place loves me. I pay $10 a cut, have no preference for any of the women barbers, never need a shampoo, close my eyes as soon as they put the apron on me and sit quietly. Most are bi-lingual and outside of a quick comment about the weather, it is all business.
Beyond my excellent behavior, what ingratiates me to these women is my hair. There's not much of it. I hold up my index finger, say #1, and they nod happily. #1 is the easiest haircut to perform, being a tad longer than complete baldy. I'm am done in three minutes, and that includes trimming my eyebrows.
I stand, giving a two dollar tip, and walk to the payment desk. They return to their conversation, reading gossip mags, TV watching, or head outside for a smoke. My head contains no bumps, sores, or pimples. My ear hair is under control, my nostril hair carefully trimmed. I smell pretty good. In short, there is nothing disgusting about me. I am the ideal customer.
I do feel nostalgic in that chair. I'll open my eyes and peek, seeing a few small clumps of gray hair, pitiful, frankly. In my youth, there were piles of dark brown follicles all over the apron and on the floor. They had to call in special South American cleanup teams to get the area ready for the next customer. The Hair God is what they whispered. Now it's simply, have a nice day. I just checked. My ear hair isn't as under control as I thought.
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