Super haircut Tuesday
Another "Super Tuesday" is here. "Separation Tuesday" they're calling it on the cable news channels—I guess because tonight Hillary and the Donald are supposed to "separate" from the pack. Talk about biased reporting. I'm totally disgusted by it. But if Bernie can take three out of five states tonight, it will be a major, major victory. My father is eager to watch all of the election results—"They start reporting the exit polls at 5 p.m.," he told me—but Allison and I can't really handle all the tense waiting around and one-sided reporting, so we are going out for dinner instead. Otherwise I'd probably be trashed on Crown Royal by 8 o'clock.
I got a haircut today—always a stressful experience, since I HATE making small talk with barbers, which is apparently part of their job. I suppose pointless, idle chatter makes most people comfortable, but I would prefer to sit in silence. When I was a kid, a barber once asked me if I had a girlfriend, and I don't think I've been comfortable in a barber's chair since. This afternoon, I tried a new place on Monroe, the Dandedeville Barber & Beauty shop, a real hipster establishment that made me feel like I was back in Portland—minus the beer beforehand, though, I'm not sure if that's legal in New York state.
Dennis cut my hair, and he did a good enough job. It's a hipster look, I would say, which is good because Allison said it didn't look "modern" enough the other day. (I reminded her that SHE was the last one to cut it!) Dennis was very "chill" and a definite "low talker"—I could hardly hear him over the sound of the clippers and the music. He was asking me all kinds of questions: Where am I from? Where do I usually get my haircut? What do I "do"? What am I "up to" today?
I must have had too much coffee before I headed over to the shop because I started sweating as I tried to give him casual but friendly answers to his questions.
"Uh, well, I'm from Rochester originally ... but I've been living in New York City for the last ... well, for a long time. Now I'm back in town to help my parents out with some things. Since I've been back I got my hair cut at the place down the street, because ... well, because I used to go there as a kid. And then last time, my girlfriend cut my hair. No, she's not a stylist or anything, we were just being cheap. What do I do ... well, I'm a freelance editor, but, I don't know, like I said, I'm just recently back in town, so I'm kind of feeling things out. I was working a bit earlier today ... my girlfriend and I are going out to dinner later, then I'm going to watch the primary results. I've been getting very caught up in the political stuff lately ..."
On and on I rambled as he periodically interjected with whispered words and new questions that I had to ask him to repeat every time.
But he was a nice guy, very relaxed but also conscientious about his work—taking his time to find the right product and style my hair just so. Next time, I should probably take a clonazepam or a shot of whiskey first, rather than three coffees. Come to think of it, that's probably why they serve beer at the barber shops in Portland. I always assumed it was some kind of hipster affectation—but I really do need something to settle my nerves while I get a haircut, especially if the barber is going to talk my ear off. Maybe other people feel the same way...