Getting my whatever on...

Sorry if the site has been a little slow lately, but I've been busy preparing for Skepticamp. Part of my preparation included one of the strangest conversations I've ever had while getting a haircut.

When I was called up to the barber's chair, she said, "Hi, I'm Whatever and, whew, it was so hard to walk from the car. I really need to lose some weight."

I nod without thinking. I catch myself and say, lamely, "Well, the trick is picking the time of day that you walk."

Like I never said a word, "I've gained some 74 pounds since last year. But I'm going on this diet, flax seed, have you heard of it?"

"Flax seed oil?"

"Yeah, it just melts the fat away."

"I don't think it works."

"Really? Why not?"

"There would be a lot more skinny people."

"Well, people don't know about it. There are so many so-called miracle cures that someone has to pick from, they don't hear about it."

"How is 'melting fat away' not a miracle cure?"

At this point she changed the topic, which was fine. Don't piss off the person with the scissors, that's my motto.

"Well, what can I do for you today, sweetheart? Just shorten it. Maybe trim your beard with with a #2 or a 1.5?" This creeps my shit out momentarily, but then I remember that this particular haircut chain is advertising that they keep notes on their customers. I resume my being creeped out.

She starts cutting and telling me to not tilt my head, "because I'm an artist." I fail to see how that means that I should not tilt my head, and the only reason I don't ask is that I am not at all curious about what she means.

There are few things less enjoyable than a haircut. Some people like it, I guess. I'd rather have half of my skin surgically removed if they did it without talking to me than get my haircut. It's the vacuous friendly banter that I find distressing. Oh, and people touching my head. Don't touch the head. I'd rather not be touched.

"You think that I'm lying about being an artist," Whatever says. "But I have done some art shows and...., blah blah blah... my church... blah blah...I make popsicle stick lamps for old people."

That's what she meant by artist? I'm screwed, I think. "Well, that's nice of you."

This goes on for hours. Endless hours. Finally, she takes clippers to my beard, which I had been growing out on purpose. But protesting would mean talking to her, so I lose most of my beard.

Then, out of nowhere she starts having at my eyebrows! What the! Fuck! I go into a trance, but one made entirely of rage. I don't want to come out of this looking like Vanilla Ice!

"Now, I'm going to rinse your hair. (I only do this for my friends.)"

You think that you have a lot more friends than you do, I think.

I'm a boy, you see, and we don't do this. We don't get shampoos at the barber shop. We get haircuts and little severed follicles fall from our heads for days. That's how it goes. Suddenly, I find my head back in a basin with a little dip in the edge for where my neck is supposed to go, like a guillotine. Notice I say, is supposed to go. Instead, my new bestest-buddy-ever gets it pretty close, and soapy water is trickling irritatingly down my neck. I cast my eyes about, looking for a chainsaw, but she has very cleverly removed all chainsaws from the area.

Two rinses later--two rinses!-- she starts blasting me with this powder and then she goops up her hands and puts them in front of my nose. Clearly, she wants me to smell the hair gel. I'd rather get harpooned. I smell the hair gel and nod in agreement or something. She dives into my hair smearing and swirling my hair.

"There! I told you I was an artist."

"You know, Jack the Ripper said that too."

A big laugh, "Yeah, and they remember him until this day!"

I pay, and she gives me her email address, and I say I will get in contact with her soon, which means that I can never go back to that barber shop again.

HJ