It's been said that you lose 5 minutes off your life for every cigarette smoked; I just lost the equivalent of about a 1000 packs of smokes from the tail end of my existence. You see, there are very few things more stressful to me than getting my hair cut by an unknown barber. Hence, with one or two exceptions, every single haircut in my life has been at the hands of two people and those other haircuts have always sucked – today was no different.
I should have known I was in trouble the second I walked into the place. This shop was old school, I mean really old school, like they still had leeches in the back. All of the barbers must have been active members of the AARP for at least the last 20 years. And here I come in looking like a goddamn hippy. Did I listen to my instincts and walk out at that point? No, of course not. After sitting down and mentioning that I only wanted a half inch or so taken off and the first guy refused to cut my hair, did I take that as a sign that I perhaps I should take my business elsewhere? Nope, let's do this thing.
So, there I sat, palms clenched and drenched as I watched inch after inch of hair fall helplessly around me as barber #2 took to my hair like Edward Scissorhands, only a little less emo. Oh sure, there were highlights, like when an older woman walked past and the guy pointed out that, "she sure looks good for an old lady - ass hasn't dropped yet." And just in case I missed the first time, he murmured a second, "that ass has not dropped." But mostly it was torturous experience and now I look like a freakin' pixie; another inch and I could have donated to Locks of Love. No, there will be no pictures, so please don't ask. My Padres hat will be a consistent prop in any of the pictures you do see of me over the coming weeks.
John, you've got your work cut out for you when I get back to San Diego.