A little while back, I wrote about how I was offended when a hairdresser asked to “take care” of my eyebrows.
You can go back and read it, but if you decide not to, all you need to know is that, bushy as they may be, I sure as hell wasn’t about to let anyone trim them.
Until the other day.
You see, I finally moved into my new apartment. But I have not fully unpacked. One of the things that I have not been able to find yet are my hair clippers.
So to get a haircut, I once again needed to go and pay for it.
I figured that it would be a relatively quick task. I buzz my entire head the same length, so the haircut itself would take no more than five minutes.
In and out. Nothing complicated.
But when I walked into a local barber shop, there were approximately twenty guys sitting or standing as they waited to get their hair cut.
I immediately walked out and Google Mapped another barber shop. But when I got there, it was even more crowded.
The same thing happened at the third barber shop, and that is when I realized that it was five o’clock on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend. Every guy in the area apparently wanted to get spruced up for the holiday weekend, and I had once again miserably failed at planning.
Dejected, I decided to forego the whole haircut and just get pizza. Because, let’s be honest — pizza cures everything. Including being so unsynchronized with the world around you that you’re unable to coordinate a simple haircut.
I found a nice little pizza joint and proceeded to stuff my face and then walk out, licking my fingers and feeling satisfied for abusing greasy goodness as a means of drowning out the feelings of failure. I could barely remember that I had been conquered by the one simple task that I had set out to accomplish.
The good thing about crushing my body with tons of food in such moments is the fact that it makes my brain forget about whatever sadness it is currently trying to process. The bad thing about this is that the numbness in my brain is not solely pinpointed to that specific pain, but to my whole brain in general. In this zombie-like food coma, the parts of my body take on a life of their own and have to do things for themselves.
It was at this point that my eyes droopily noticed a sign that read “Salon.” The sign hovered over a store in the same shopping center that seemed to be completely void of customers.
Though they were very far from the top of my head, my feet remembered that the other pole of my body needed a trimming, so they instinctively began walking in the direction of the salon.
After walking a few feet, my brain started to realize what was happening, so it sent out this thought: Wait! Girls go to salons!
A few steps later, my feet stopped walking.
As if to alleviate the hesitancy of my feet, my eyes trained on the word before “Salon,” which read “Unisex.”
My brain sounded out the words again, just to make sure.
Aside from bathrooms and locker rooms, almost every room that I have ever entered was, in fact, unisex. This salon, however, would be the first place that I had ever entered that felt the need to describe itself as such.
This fact troubled me a bit, as I didn’t know what it would imply for me to enter a unisex facility that explicitly described itself as such.
But as I contemplated this fact, my feet had already begun walking towards the place that would cut my hair, and eventually my eyebrows.
Maybe it was the food coma. But maybe it was something else. The temptress known as The Salon was acting like an alien spacecraft which was shining a bright beacon of light in my direction. And I was staring and dumbly pacing towards it, like a moth to a flame.
This beacon of light that says, you know the salon is for girls, but come on in anyway. Because you know that there is something tantalizing about the world of salons. Why else would women pay exorbitant amounts of money to go to them all the time?
You don’t understand them, but after today…you will.
And you will love it.
And that word, “Unisex?”
If any of your “bros” make fun of you for entering a salon, your defense is as simple as proclaiming the name of the salon. “It said it was for men!” you can tell them. “It said it right on the sign!”
Oh, Youngman. We are going to have such a lovely day, here at the salon.
It is a “unisex” salon, alright. Because your hair is about to get u-ni-sex’ed up.
My brain kept telling me, “No, no! It’s a salon! It is for women! This isn’t natural!”
But my feet kept walking.
Continued in Part II