(I could use that as an introduction to about 85% of my blog entries. Let's see where this one goes...)
If I were a chick, I'd do my nails differently regularly. I'd wear different shoes and color my hair and try different types of makeup... eye shadow and lipstick and whatever.
I'm not saying that those things, in and of themselves, appeal to me (although I do enjoy owning many shoes). I just enjoy changing things up, and as a dude I'm limited in the number of things I can change: my clothes, my facial hair, and my hair style.
So, when it comes time to get a haircut, I not only tend to get them all cut, but I tend to get a bit excited. It's a socially acceptable time to post a selfie (although I've limited my social circle online (and otherwise, although that's irrelevant to this post) enough where "socially acceptable" means something different for me, I supose). And it's a time where I can use less shampoo and/or hair product without worrying too much about how my hair looks at work.
This past weekend it was that time. Time to get my ears lowered, as it were.
I waited for my friend and stylist. I was called and I removed my jacket (superfluous for such a nice day, but oh, well). I took the center of three empty chairs. As I spoke to my friend, she cut and we caught up and I paid close attention to my surroundings.
I walked out with a shorter 'do and a trio of mini-stories. Enjoy.
Stylist-Client PrivilegeTo my right, a gentleman sat down for a cut. I have gone a while between hair cuts before, and my hair has been pretty shaggy, even long, but this guy's hair was crazy. Not crazy-long--it was just out of control.
"Why," I mused internally, "that fellow has quite a style. I dare say it will be interesting to see what he prefers, given his current state!"
(I'm not quite sure why I was musing in such an amusing fashion, but I was.)
I didn't have to wait long to find out as I overheard:
Stylist: So... what do we want today?Ouch. The dude might get behind the wheel drunk, but at least he's honest with his stylist.
Dewey: Something for court.
Stylist: Uh, oh. What happened?
I felt a little uncomfortable listening in on the conversation (plus, they started talking about something else) so I turned my attention to the left.
Shorter isn't BetterThe dude to my left had crazy hair, kind of, too. It wasn't wild and long like Dewey's, but it was (to use a technical term) totally crappy.
It was frizzy and long and sort of spikey. It looked like he hadn't been to a barber or stylist or a location with a mirror in a long while. In fact, it looked exactly like this:
"I dare say," my internal voice exclaimed in consternation, "he has come to the right place to set his wrongs right and to improve upon his appearance."
Now this may come as a shock, but I'm not a professional hair stylist. I barely know what's going on with my hair and I've got a fair bit of experience with it.
Even as a non-pro, though, I was thinking it could be made shorter, styled, with maybe a bit of product.And the guy would look slightly less like he had never thought about making his hair look decent.
I don't know what conversation took place (although we'll talk in a moment about how I definitely paid attention in other ways) but I was surprised when the dude got out of his chair about 10 minutes later and looked exactly like this:
Again: I'm not casting aspersions at the stylist. I'm restricting my aspersions to his hair.
Forever YoungPerhaps one of the reasons I didn't hear Badhair tell the stylist that he wanted a shorter version of the same pile of crap he currently had was because I was staring at the stylist.
"Zounds," my internal dialogue supplied, "I know not whether to gaze at her amble bosom or lick my lips lasciviously at her exposed legs!"
I enjoyed my conversation with my friend--honest. I was eager to see how my hair turned out--trust me.
But the stylist to my left made me eager in other ways.
My hair cut finished, I paid the tab and departed. I snapped the obligatory selfie, sent it to a few friends and posted it on Facebook and Snapchat, and caught a bus home.
On the bus, I sent a txt of thanks to my friend. And I hinted, in a middle school manner, that she should introduce us. Our txt conversation went something like this:
Me: Thank you! It was great seeing you. And nice work on my hair.
Her: Thanks. Good seeing you too.
Me: I am sorry if I was distracted by the chick to our left.
Me: I found her extremely attractive.
Me: Obviously the feeling was mutual. We almost made eye contact once.
Me: I just have a gift, what can I say? Seriously, though: when she asks about me, feel free to sing my praises.
Her: I would, but she's 19. I don't know if you're into that.
I guess it depends on what one means by "into that", but ... ugh.
Couldn't she have been 21, at least?
Couldn't she have been 21, at least?