Archive for March, 2008

Don’t get me wrong, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the girl that cuts my hair. In fact, that’s kind of the problem.

I’ve been going to her for years. Before I left for California, I would drive 12 miles one way to get my hair cut every few weeks just because how awesome she is. One day, she stopped working there and I went into haircut depression. Then I left for California. Upon returning, I decided to try the random haircut place right by my apartment. And guess who’s there?

She’s lightning fast but surgically precise, and knows me better than I do. She’ll ask if a certain length is okay, and if I respond with anything other than an affirmation, she goes ahead and does that length anyways. This is largely to save me from myself and the impending embarrassment that would inevitably turn me either to the hair equivalent of Alfalfa from the Little Rascals or Ringo Starr. Despite getting the same haircut every time, she still asks how I want my hair cut, knowing full well that no matter what I say, she’ll just smile and get working on the world’s most unmanageable hair.

Lastly, and perhaps one of the best reasons of getting my hair cut, is that she’s gorgeous. We’re not just talking Miss-America-beauty-pageant gorgeous, but all-out gawk-friendly eye-candy.

We don’t make a lot of conversation during the whole hair ordeal, unlike Cathy in California who I would chat it up with and she would ask probing and delving questions about my personal life, to which I would comfortably laugh off or give her what she wants to hear. In fact, our conversations are generally very brief and generic. “Busy day today?” “It’s getting cold outside.” Stuff like that. You would think that we’d have more to talk about seeing how drastically closer we are in age compared to her California counterpart. Generally, it’s better this way, seeing how I usually can’t form any semblance of a coherent sentence when she’s running her fingers through my hair.

Today, I was due for a haircut. I usually recognize this by observing when the hair above my ears start to defy gravity. So, off to get my hair cut it was.

Upon entering, I thought that she was off today. She was nowhere in sight, and her station looked deserted. I was heartbroken. I turned and was ready to walk out the door to try my luck another day.

Then, very faintly, I heard her laugh, and she emerged from the back. I don’t even want to know how gaping open my mouth was. A ridiculously short skirt and black tights appeared in front of me.

So, she cut my hair. I tried to remain focused so that she didn’t lop off a chunk of hair from me snapping out of a daydream or something. When we were almost through, she spoke.

“Did you work today? Or were you at school?”

I focused all my energy on working on a response that didn’t make me sound like I just arrived on the short bus.

“Oh, I just got back from work.”

She continued.

“You’re working now? Did you finish school?”

“Yeah, a few years ago.”

“Oh really? You look like you’re still in school.”

“Wait, how old do you think I am? Or do I not want to know the answer to this question?”

Suddenly, the phone rang. It threw off my concentration. I figured that devastating phone call just ended our conversation.

She ignored the phone.

“So how old are you?”

“26.”

“Oh. You look young.”

Great, what do I say to that? Thanks, I was aiming for the 10 year old boyish look? But I had to say something. And soon too.

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

“Looking young is good. I like young. I think it’s beautiful.”

How I didn’t collapse out of that chair, I’ll never know. I’ll recognize your non-native English definition of “beautiful” as meaning “incredibly good looking and heart-stoppingly charming”. Marry me, and I’ll never have to pay for haircuts again. We both win.

“Gel?”

“Huh? What?”

“Do you want some gel in your hair?”