This Thursday, April 10, I decided to go get myself a haircut. My hair was not exactly mangy, but it was getting a touch too long for my liking. So, shortly after work, I pulled into a local hair salon for a trim. I was not the first in the store, and ended up having to wait over thirty minutes to get my haircut.
As I sat there, waiting, I listened to the idle chatter between the stylists and their customers. One such customer was a young girl, about nine years old, and she was talking to the stylist about the recent Disney film “Frozen.” The girl lived in Ottawa, but was visiting Lawrence for a couple of days. The two of them talked about Ottawa for a little while, the young girl complaining about how the pools all closed during the winter time.
Eventually, it was my turn to get a cut. The stylist (whose name shall remain hidden, as I’d hate for her to lose business over this), jokingly called me love, and asked me what cut I wanted. I answered, giving specifics in length. As she began cutting, we struck up a conversation. I mentioned how I was a student at KU, studying journalism, and she talked about her kids and her daily routine at the salon. She talked about the problems she used to have with her son getting haircuts, as he was so hyper he needed to be restrained. I used to be a bit of a problem child when it came to hyperactivity, so I understood her plight, we talked on the subject for a little while.
Somehow, the topic shifted to disorders, and we discussed the eating disorder Pica for awhile. It was not the most interesting of conversations, but what was interesting was the consequence of distracting the woman with the shears to my head. I realized, too little too late, that she had cut my hair much shorter than I wanted, practically down to a buzz. I was not angry with her, this was my doing. I had one rule regarding barbershops, and that was not to distract the person with the sharp objects to your head, and I broke it.
I played down my disappointment at the cut I’d received (this was shortest my hair had ever been since grade school) and paid the woman, with a tip for giving me a good laugh. I left the salon, just over an hour after I’d arrived, with a bad haircut, but a funny story behind how I got it.