Basboy’s Weblog

I had wanted to cut my hair for a while, now, but postponed it for fear of the certain baldness below. Nonetheless, knowing that the state of being at peace with one’s unattractiveness is by far preferred to perpetual denial, and the fact that my hair- thinning or no- is incredibly unmanageable when “long”, I went to a barber on Friday.

Now, I do mean a barber, and not a hairstylist or one of those haircutting franchises, both of which I have been using for the past few years. It’s just so hard to find a proper barber, and I usually find myself avoiding those that would want to strike up a conversation with me over the 10-15 minutes that it takes to cut my hair, and so I like to visit impersonal salons or ethnic haircutters at the nearby “hair district” (a mini-mall wherein every other shop is a different ethnic salon). I never go to the same place twice in a row to save me from that familiarity that make someone think they can talk to you about everything from the weather to how their day has been. Because I am always searching out a “new” hair professional, I often find myself being served by a female, which works out to shield me from the only thing more annoying than a chatty cathy who wants to rant about her day: one who wants to talk about that sports event I have no knowledge of, or any interest in.

The drawback to that would be that female hairstylists, talented and multi-faceted though they might be, have little knowledge of straight-forward male haircutting. They snip only to achieve a semblance of symmetry, usually achieving a very short cut, and tend to so quickly as if prolonged contact with the hair was harmful to their health. I like to enjoy a relaxing haircut: a slow snipping away at my hair to reveal a more civilized and attractive head while I relax and enjoy the cushy seat and the light sensations of sissors snipping at my hair while a steady but gentle hand positions my head. I even enjoy the clippers as they trim the hars at the base of my nape, though that usually signals the end of the session. I am glad, then, to say that I finally found that compromise between hair proficiency and relaxation.

I went to hair district, as I often do, and found this place called Jimmy’s salon, or Jimmy the barber, or something like that. No one, not in this city, would use the name Jimmy unless to evoke a non-threatening, perhaps All-Canadian sensibilty, while being quite new to the country. In deed, my barber was either Iranian or possibly an Iraqi Kurd, whose entire English language repertoire consisted of the sentence, “How you like your hair?”. This, of course, suited me, as it meant that I would not be subjected to any forced conversation. After I told him my preferance, he went about trying to achieve it, and, boy, did he try to achieve it? I felt sorry for him trying to comb and tame that hair of mine, snipping ever-so-slightly at each side to reach some sort of symmetry, and being a perfectionist never truly happy with it. I just sat and enjoyed the ability to relax at the end of my week, while the poor man struggled with this flawed canvas; and I must admit to smiling ever-so-slightly at the end as he unhappily and reluctantly gave up. I tried to cheer him up by praising his work, and though my words were not empty, he was not appeased. Knowing that this kind dedication is rare, I gave him what I hope is a more-than-fair tip, and resolved to make him my regular barber. We’ll see if that label sticks, because I am quite the asocial individual at times…