When it’s time for a haircut, it’s time for a haircut. I become Rainman-like in my need to get it handled, changing any other plans I might have had if necessary. I can only stand a “dirty” neckline for so long before I need to be clipped, trimmed and coiffed. In stark contrast to my compulsion to get a haircut is my desire to spend as little as possible. I have short, simple hair, and have a driving desire to get it over with (no doubt from Mom or Dad’s “gentle” hand in all those home cuts I received as a child). I go to a place a couple of blocks away and usually have a nominal visit.
But as it goes, I find it to be like gambling a little bit. Who am I going to get this time? There are a few stylists–one in particular–who talks non-stop about the most inappropriate stuff. Her name is Cathy, and she is chatty as hell.
This what I gleaned while sitting in the chair for forty minutes (twice as long as necessary for this head o’ hair):
- Her ex-boyfriend wants to move into her basement (and I think she said he was now dating her daughter). “He pulled a Woody, huh?”
- Said daughter is against the move-in, not for reasons you might think, but because she thinks the basement is haunted. “Maybe there was a previous love triangle murder there before yours started.”
- The stylist has been having terrible headaches and in spite of a negative MRI think it’s brain cancer. “If the ghost doesn’t get you, this will.”
- Her mother lives in a rat-infested building “because she leaves her door open.” “Who let the rats out?”
- When a gentleman in a wheelchair entered the establishment and was getting situated with another stylist, Cathy thankfully mouthed “Sad” to me so I’d know the appropriate emotion to feel. I mean, is that service or what?!
See you next time, Cathy!