I get a hair cut and a little queasy.Posted: December 26, 2009
I went to get a hair cut on Christmas Eve. Bad timing, but I was way over due.
I may need to reconsider where I get that done.
There was no line at the hair cutting place. I walked in and went right to a chair. It was as if people had other things to do. So did I, but something told me I should go on and take care of the hair cut first.
I really should consider not listening to that voice in my head sometimes.
A woman I’ve never seen before cut my hair. That isn’t unusual. I haven’t been too awfully particular about that. I don’t make an appointment, I just catch whoever is free and let them throw that plastic hair cut clothes cover thing on me
I’m particular about things that don’t matter; I’m not particular when I should be.
Shortly after this woman started cutting my hair, a conversation about Christmas started among the people working there. Typically, when I go for a hair cut I keep my mouth shut and get out. This time, I decide to join the conversation.
I was taught by two perfectly good parents not to talk to strangers. Sometimes I forget.
Black and gray hair is called salt and pepper. I don’t know what the equivalent is for brown and gray, but the woman made a lot of it fall on that plastic cover thing while simultaneously she told her friend how she did not enjoy Christmas last year because she was so ill. I said “you felt pretty bad, huh?”
I shouldn’t talk to strangers. Strangers should know the definition of too much information.
“Food poisoning”, she said, “I only saw my family through the door of my bedroom.” That was answer enough for me. I did not intend to go with any follow-up questions. Some people like to elaborate. This one had scissors next to my head.
Self preservation instincts tell me that cutting off a person with scissors next to my head is a poor choice. Sometimes I don’t like self-preservation instincts.
In the midst of my hair cut, this woman launches into a description of the symptoms of her bout of food poisoning. The description is very graphic, with vigorous hand motions from the mouth and the other end to demonstrate the velocity and power with which her body ejected the offending substances.
I have a happy place in my head I can usually visit as needed. The happy place apparently moves farther away when confronted with visions of a woman in the mirror demonstrating an explosive bowel movement. Damn you, happy place.
As she finishes up she tells me that when her son asked if she was going to clean up the bathroom she decided to call her mother and let the boy spend the rest of the holiday with his grandmother. Using a hand mirror, she shows me the reflection of the back of my head in the mirror in front of me. She whips the plastic cover off me, scattering salt and whatever on the floor.
I’m ready to get out. I’m almost feeling food poisoned myself.
As I pay, she tells me it was probably some undercooked chicken . I head toward the car. I shake my head to get more loose hair out before I head to the mall. There is considerably more salt in my hair than there was a couple years back.
You know, maybe I could get my next haircut at that place with salon in its name. They take reservations and everything.
I start the car and look in the rear view mirror. You know, she didn’t do a bad job. In fact, it looks pretty good.
I’m probably going to need to avoid chicken for a little while.