A few weeks ago I was rushing home from work. I had seen a million patients, I was late, and there were friends coming to dinner so I wanted to get home to help Hannah clean up.
In another section of my brain, I fretted about my growing shagginess. Even for me this was ridiculous. I was starting to look like my favorite singer in 1989.
Since the next few days were equally busy, I decided to stop off for a quick trim. I started down 1st avenue toward a barbershop I know and liked, but realized it would take 20 minutes to walk there. Surely, I thought, there would be a place to get haircut on my walk to the subway.
And surely I was right. I walked past the brightly lit window and saw that all the requisite elements were in place: a row of chairs, an elderly gentleman wielding clippers, semi-dirty magazines. I sat down and told the gentleman how much I wanted taken off.
And it was then that I first realized I was in trouble. The gentleman looked over to his friend, a slightly younger man slouched against the mirrored wall. The younger man held up a thumb and forefinger spaced about an inch apart. The older gentleman nodded and clacked his scissors next to my ear.
He started out giving me what I wanted, a trim. But somewhere between watching the TV and chatting with his friend, he curved slowly toward the standard haircut he gives all the young East Village hipsters. And I walked out looking like this:
Now some of you (Hannah included) will say that you like this look better. And I guess I do look more professional, more mature, less young and goofy. But I liked being those things.
I'm okay with temporarily shedding my mane. But I am sad that I can no longer do this:
(I know it sounds like he's choking to death, but that's actually the sound he makes when he's on the doorstep to heaven....)
Nice thing about hair is that it grows back, if you want it to (well, until you reach a certain age . . .)
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