Aug. 17: She's always in my hair
I was eating supper at Don Cherry’s Restaurant when my waitress told me she wanted to cut my hair.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“It’s so thick,” she said,running a hand through it. “Will you let me cut it sometime?”
“Sure,” I said. “But do you know how to cut hair?”
She handed me a business card for the salon where she worked. Her name was Wendy.
The next week, I went to Wendy’s salon for a haircut. On Wendy’s workstation was a little placardthat said this: Behind all of the notions of what is right and what is wrong, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
I always hated that.
-
If I could change that placard, I’d replace meet with kill. Yeah, I know murder is wrong but that’s only good in the place where there are notions of right and wrong. In this field, anything goes and since we’re all beautiful happy twentysomethings, this particular blend of godless anarchy will be a perfect non-violent utopia. Right? Puh-leeze.
-
Wendy worked at Don Cherry’s with a girl I went to high school with. The girl, who I will call Tiffani,was a snob. I told Wendy that Tiffani was a snob in high school and she told me that Tiffani was pretty much the same way at Don Cherry’s. “She won’t clean her tables,” she said.
-
I don’t know where Wendy is anymore. Like so many people I write about on this blog, she’s been swallowed up by that great juggernaut I call The Past.
She isn’t always in my hair anymore.
-
There used to be a barbershop in Calgary where one of the stylists did straight razor shaves. She was a darling girl whose family came from India and Sri Lanka. She weighed 98 pounds holding a gallon of milk.
Whenever I visited Calgary, I would get a shave from her. I won’t say it was erotic; it didn’t turn me on. I won’t even say it was romantic. But it was pleasant. My skin was being pampered by this brown-skinned jewel. She never cut me and in time, she trusted me enough to be alone in the salon with me.
Sometimes she’d cut my hair too but it was the shave I enjoyed the most.
-
Getting a shave in a barbershop is a waste of money. It’s like hiring a taxi to drive you to a friend’s house who lives just a block away. I can shave myself just fine,thank you very much, but getting it done in a barbershop (or a salon) just has that spark of je ne said quoi?
I think I was 17 the first time I had a barbershop shave. I was getting my hair cut at Southcentre mall and I noticed they did straight razor shaves there too. I asked my barber if I could have one and my barber, a big Italian man in his fifties with a huge black mustache, said that I could. When he was done cutting my hair, he leaned me back and placed a hot towel over my face in order to open up the pores. I lay there for about five minutes while the big Italian guy talked to his wife, also a barber, in Italian. Then the towel came off and he rubbed some ointment on my face. Then he got some cream and rubbed it on my cheeks, chin, neck,and upper lip. The cream smelled of grapes.
Then it was straight razor time.
He hardly spoke to me at all while he shaved me. He kept a steady stream of dialogue going with his wife as his straight razor eliminated my beard. “Hold still,” he said when it was time to deal with what passed for my mustache. I held still. I felt the sharp steel move down to my lip once. Twice. Three times. Then the barber washed the excess cream off my face, rubbed some more ointment into my cheeks (it stung a little) and declared that I was done. I ran a finger beneath my chin and – yes my friends – it was as smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom.
I guess in my life I’ve had about 50 shaves in barbershops. I’ve had men shave me and I’ve had women shave me too. Not just the Sri Lankan goddess either. I had a lady shave me in Ireland and another lady in Cornwall shaved me on my 40thbirthday. I think I prefer being shaved by women. I know they can’t fully empathise with what it’s like to have whiskers but it could be this ignorance that I find so appealing. Either that or I just like balance. Man in chair, woman with blade. There’s something that just seems right about that.
-
The song She’s Always in My Hair is not about getting a haircut – it’s about a woman who cares for her man and is determined to support him. The lyrics go “Whenever I feel like giving up. Whenever my sunshine turns to rain. Whenever my hopes and dreams are aimed in the wrong direction, she’s always there telling me how much she cares. She’s always in my hair.”
I’ve had a few women like that in my life.
I push them away.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“It’s so thick,” she said,running a hand through it. “Will you let me cut it sometime?”
“Sure,” I said. “But do you know how to cut hair?”
She handed me a business card for the salon where she worked. Her name was Wendy.
The next week, I went to Wendy’s salon for a haircut. On Wendy’s workstation was a little placardthat said this: Behind all of the notions of what is right and what is wrong, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
I always hated that.
-
If I could change that placard, I’d replace meet with kill. Yeah, I know murder is wrong but that’s only good in the place where there are notions of right and wrong. In this field, anything goes and since we’re all beautiful happy twentysomethings, this particular blend of godless anarchy will be a perfect non-violent utopia. Right? Puh-leeze.
-
Wendy worked at Don Cherry’s with a girl I went to high school with. The girl, who I will call Tiffani,was a snob. I told Wendy that Tiffani was a snob in high school and she told me that Tiffani was pretty much the same way at Don Cherry’s. “She won’t clean her tables,” she said.
-
I don’t know where Wendy is anymore. Like so many people I write about on this blog, she’s been swallowed up by that great juggernaut I call The Past.
She isn’t always in my hair anymore.
-
There used to be a barbershop in Calgary where one of the stylists did straight razor shaves. She was a darling girl whose family came from India and Sri Lanka. She weighed 98 pounds holding a gallon of milk.
Whenever I visited Calgary, I would get a shave from her. I won’t say it was erotic; it didn’t turn me on. I won’t even say it was romantic. But it was pleasant. My skin was being pampered by this brown-skinned jewel. She never cut me and in time, she trusted me enough to be alone in the salon with me.
Sometimes she’d cut my hair too but it was the shave I enjoyed the most.
-
Getting a shave in a barbershop is a waste of money. It’s like hiring a taxi to drive you to a friend’s house who lives just a block away. I can shave myself just fine,thank you very much, but getting it done in a barbershop (or a salon) just has that spark of je ne said quoi?
I think I was 17 the first time I had a barbershop shave. I was getting my hair cut at Southcentre mall and I noticed they did straight razor shaves there too. I asked my barber if I could have one and my barber, a big Italian man in his fifties with a huge black mustache, said that I could. When he was done cutting my hair, he leaned me back and placed a hot towel over my face in order to open up the pores. I lay there for about five minutes while the big Italian guy talked to his wife, also a barber, in Italian. Then the towel came off and he rubbed some ointment on my face. Then he got some cream and rubbed it on my cheeks, chin, neck,and upper lip. The cream smelled of grapes.
Then it was straight razor time.
He hardly spoke to me at all while he shaved me. He kept a steady stream of dialogue going with his wife as his straight razor eliminated my beard. “Hold still,” he said when it was time to deal with what passed for my mustache. I held still. I felt the sharp steel move down to my lip once. Twice. Three times. Then the barber washed the excess cream off my face, rubbed some more ointment into my cheeks (it stung a little) and declared that I was done. I ran a finger beneath my chin and – yes my friends – it was as smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom.
I guess in my life I’ve had about 50 shaves in barbershops. I’ve had men shave me and I’ve had women shave me too. Not just the Sri Lankan goddess either. I had a lady shave me in Ireland and another lady in Cornwall shaved me on my 40thbirthday. I think I prefer being shaved by women. I know they can’t fully empathise with what it’s like to have whiskers but it could be this ignorance that I find so appealing. Either that or I just like balance. Man in chair, woman with blade. There’s something that just seems right about that.
-
The song She’s Always in My Hair is not about getting a haircut – it’s about a woman who cares for her man and is determined to support him. The lyrics go “Whenever I feel like giving up. Whenever my sunshine turns to rain. Whenever my hopes and dreams are aimed in the wrong direction, she’s always there telling me how much she cares. She’s always in my hair.”
I’ve had a few women like that in my life.
I push them away.
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