The Hungover Haircut

It's a slow Thursday morning. The damn thing just won't end. I stand hungover in front of my bathroom mirror. After paying homage to the porcelain goddess, I search desperately for any sort of aspirin. I'll settle for an antihistamine at this point, anything small, brightly-colored, and doctor-recommended. No luck. At least the day can only get better from here.

My friends always tell me that being outside helps when you're sick or hungover. The sunlight on your skin makes you feel better or some such nonsense. Why not give it a try? I peel a pair of pants off the couch and slip on my shoes. I open the door, step outside, and close the door. I open the door, step back inside, and close the door. I fish my jacket out of the dirty clothes pile and head back out.

The sun’s smile stings my eyes. Even if I had sunglasses, I wouldn't wear them - it's just too cliché. There's a nice park about a block from my apartment. There are plenty of trees, shade, and great picnic locations. At just the right time, birds, squirrels, and all kinds of insect critters scurry about and the park vibrates with a magical symphony of life…

To hell with that. I get in my car and drive south. Everything interesting in this town is south of where I live.

I have to concentrate so much on driving safely that I can’t decide where the hell I actually want to go. Before long, I’ve driven past everything interesting in this town.

But I'm near an HEB now (although, you're never that far away from one). I decide to go in and buy some aspirin. As I'm navigating the parking lot I see so many people going to and from their cars. Braking suddenly to keep from hitting someone who thinks it’s a good idea to ignore cars and walk across a roadway whenever he feels like reminds me of how much I don’t like being around crowds of people. A pang in the back of my head reminds me of my agitated state. It occurs to me that this whole endeavor will make my headache a lot worse before making it any better. It’s best to just drive away.

As I'm trying to find my way out of this maze of a strip mall parking lot, I come across a Supercuts that's deserted save a lone employee. I check my appearance in the rear-view mirror. I could use a hair cut, and some time out of my car.

The electric bell on top of the door announces my presence. Karen, Supercuts’s Senior Stylist as her nametag proclaims, is still entranced with the latest issue of People.

She doesn’t look up from it to ponder, “Haircut?”

“No,” I say, “I heard you guys make great burritos.”

Her eyes dart away from the magazine to meet mine. I’m sure she can see the dark circles and red veins. Even though her eyes only move millimeters, I can tell by her change in expression that she spots my tangled mane. She laughs, either at my joke, my hair, or perhaps some combination. I don’t really know.

“Have a seat,” she says through a few chuckles.

After I sit, she drops the chair down to the lowest height setting.

“Number two on the sides and leave an inch on the top.” I know the drill so I speak before she has a chance to ask how I want it cut.

She reaches not for her clippers but for a thick, plastic comb. She runs it through my hair a few times to get out the tangles; apparently, she knows the drill, too. A lot of stylists make the mistake of going straight for the clippers and halfway around the back of my head they get jammed.

I’m surprised that the buzz and whir doesn’t aggravate my headache, quite the opposite actually. It only takes her a few strokes for the right side of my head. My right ear perks up as though it has finally been liberated from the overwhelming weight of hair. In a matter of seconds, a year’s worth of laziness falls from the sides of my head and my scalp breathes a sigh of relief.

Karen, now standing in front of me but off to the right, pauses and puts her hand over her mouth as she chuckles again. I shoot her a puzzled look and she laughs harder. She points, not to my head but to my reflection. Oh yeah, I forgot about this part. I stare at an interesting creature in the mirror. With the sides gone, there remains only an enormous puff of hair on top of my head. I look like Toad from Super Mario Brothers.

I can’t help but smile, dimples and all.

“Don’t worry, I can fix this.” She reassures me.

She pulls out a spray bottle of water and a comb. I can’t contain my smile. The mist envelops my mushroom of a head. The water is cold but not uncomfortable. It feels like stepping into the shower after a tiring day: revitalizing. She runs the comb a few times to even out the moisture and then begins her work.

To say that this person cut my hair would be far too inaccurate - she sculpted my hair. She moved comb and scissor above my head as though doing so would save the world.

With such a simple haircut, most stylists take about ten minutes at most. Some don’t even bother using scissors; they just find a guard that’s big enough to leave an inch on the top. I imagine that they would call this woman mad.

I sit for what must have been twenty minutes watching this woman perform through the mirror. Every snip of the scissors is given the reverence one typically affords to fine china or a delicate vase. It almost seems like a pity to just let it fall to the floor.

She runs the comb a few times to weed out some fallen strands of hair and then pulls the smaller pair of clippers from her draw. It’s time to blend the top of the sides and trim the sideburns.

“Take the sideburns off.” I say. She doesn’t need to ask.

The whine of the small clippers feels oddly enjoyable next to my aching head, especially trimming the bottom line of my hair. It’s invigorating. The rapid vibrations going along the sides of my neck cause an interesting feeling in my stomach. It’s not quite nausea. It’s like being on a roller coaster, only not as intense.

“All right, take a look at the back.” She says, handing me a mirror. She spins the chair around and through the magic of geometry I see all of my head. I’m not sure how long I stared at the amazing thing this woman just gave me.

“It’s ok.” I finally let out the understatement of the century and she chuckles again.

I pay for the haircut and give her my last two dollars as a tip. Whenever my mom took me to get a haircut as a little kid she always gave me two dollars to pass on as a tip. I feel bad about tipping Karen the same amount I would have almost two decades ago; but, like a government salary, I just can’t keep up with inflation.

Unlike every other Supercuts employee, she doesn’t tell me that I need to come back once a month to “keep the style”. I guess she’s smart enough to see that I’m not that kind of guy. I step outside and return my now empty wallet to my pocket and smirk about the best fourteen bucks I ever spent.