I tried the hair saloon once. What I mean by that is that I went to the expensive, air-conditioned Britney-Spears-playing stylists as opposed to my regular round-the-corner barber. This was after I came back from France and my long, flowing European tresses were getting stripped away by the minute in the heat and dust of India. As it had been more than eight months since my previous haircut, I was willing to experiment. Besides, there was the little matter of the 50% off coupons in my possession.
I was turned away at first when I reached there since I had not taken an appointment beforehand! Not one to get the hint fate was giving me in the form of the rejection, I scheduled my coiffure at a convenient hour.
At the anointed hour, the first thing I noticed in the saloon was that I was the only male customer there. Of course, there was no dearth of spiky-haired, booted-up, covered in body art, men in black stylists that were present. Once in the hot seat, I got the sales pitch about how so many things are wrong with my hair and how the tattooed, cowboy-shoe-heeled punk had all the solutions. Pun intended. But, since I have been mentally preparing myself for going bald any day now, the impact of his doomsday speech was minimal. After his 10 minute monologue came my polite "No, thank you. Just the haircut please".
Five minutes into watching my hair fall off in bigger chunks than I had experienced during my worst nightmares of going bald, I was in a self-congratulatory mood. Surely, no bald guy can have this much hair!! One never knows how much hair one has on one's head till it has been cut off. I mean the hair, of course.
It dawned on me quite belatedly (since I was still smug with self-satisfaction) that the punk is as limited in his ability to cut hair as he is in his fashion sense. After stressing I did NOT want spikes, despite his protests, I told him I would like hair slightly short. Long enough to be combed. Now as I looked at myself in the mirror, I could see my smug look dissolving into one of resigned fury. The hair was so short that no amount of combing would bring it down. And hence was born mon mohawk.
I have never been tempted by those hair saloons again.
I was turned away at first when I reached there since I had not taken an appointment beforehand! Not one to get the hint fate was giving me in the form of the rejection, I scheduled my coiffure at a convenient hour.
At the anointed hour, the first thing I noticed in the saloon was that I was the only male customer there. Of course, there was no dearth of spiky-haired, booted-up, covered in body art, men in black stylists that were present. Once in the hot seat, I got the sales pitch about how so many things are wrong with my hair and how the tattooed, cowboy-shoe-heeled punk had all the solutions. Pun intended. But, since I have been mentally preparing myself for going bald any day now, the impact of his doomsday speech was minimal. After his 10 minute monologue came my polite "No, thank you. Just the haircut please".
Five minutes into watching my hair fall off in bigger chunks than I had experienced during my worst nightmares of going bald, I was in a self-congratulatory mood. Surely, no bald guy can have this much hair!! One never knows how much hair one has on one's head till it has been cut off. I mean the hair, of course.
It dawned on me quite belatedly (since I was still smug with self-satisfaction) that the punk is as limited in his ability to cut hair as he is in his fashion sense. After stressing I did NOT want spikes, despite his protests, I told him I would like hair slightly short. Long enough to be combed. Now as I looked at myself in the mirror, I could see my smug look dissolving into one of resigned fury. The hair was so short that no amount of combing would bring it down. And hence was born mon mohawk.
I have never been tempted by those hair saloons again.
Comments
Post a Comment