I’ve had a few bad haircuts in my life, and every one of the worst ones was done by someone who was supposed to know what he was doing. Usually, the bad haircuts were done by some barber who’d never cut my hair before. Now, I realize it’s a pretty big ask to make me appear presentable, if not handsome, in public, but you’d be surprised how badly someone with a barber pole outside the door and a rudimentary knowledge of how scissors work can truly mess up a haircut.
Several years ago, I was Ashtyn’s JV basketball coach. Ashtyn now cuts my hair. I guess you could say she’s my stylist, though the style in my haircut is pretty simple and straightforward. I’ve been getting my hair cut on kind of a regular basis for quite a while now – several decades, as a matter of fact. However, it wasn’t until about a year or so ago that I was able to explain to the person standing behind me with scissors in hand exactly what I wanted her to do with the mess on my head. The only instructions I knew how to give were, “Make it shorter.”
There was a stretch of several years when my wife took care of most of my hair cutting requests. She never claimed to know what she was doing, which worked out fine because I didn’t know how to tell her how I wanted it cut anyway. I think she did a pretty good job, for the most part. And even if it wasn’t her best work, a hat and a few days fixed anything that might have been too obviously out of style.
For some reason, since Ashtyn hung her shingle up in Annalee Anderson’s shop on West Main Street in Oakley a year or two ago, she’s been able to train me up a bit. Now I know it’s a number two on the sides, leave about an inch on the top and blend it in, and when you’re done, can you trim the wild out of my eyebrows? It’s quite simple, and she can whip right through the job in 10 minutes. An added bonus is that we don’t have to go through the uncomfortable chitchat you have to suffer through when you walk into some place in town and sit down in front of some barber/stylist (barbist?) you don’t know. I mean, really? Does the girl with the nose ring and purple stripe down the middle of her head really want to know if I have anything fun planned with the family this weekend?
The one thing that is problematic with Ashtyn as my barber is that I have to plan and make an appointment several weeks in advance, unless I can miraculously catch an open spot on Walk-in Wednesday (unlikely). And since planning ahead is not really one of my strengths, I sometimes find myself with a mop in need of trimming just a few days ahead of some event where I should at least appear as though I care a little bit about how I appear.
It was in such a predicament that I found myself as I was attending a Farm Bureau legislative meeting in the capital city of our fair state just one week before the high school girls’ basketball state tournament. I needed a haircut, and with my schedule, there was no way I could get an appointment with Ashtyn. Since I’d arrived in Boise late in the afternoon before my meetings the next day, my wife suggested I find a place to get the deed done while I had an extra hour or two. I’m technologically savvy enough to ask Google, so I found a place that was open until 7, just 10 minutes from my hotel.
There were two occupied chairs and two stylists behind the chairs. The dude with the dyed Mohawk-inspired ’do and the poor-quality Japanese-themed tattoo on his flabby forearm momentarily stopped what he was doing and cheerfully took my name and cell phone number. He told me he’d be with me as soon as he finished with his current customer.
As I waited, a young man, whose attire, multiple piercings, tattoos and general appearance suggested he wasn’t in town for the Farm Bureau meeting, walked in and sat down in the chair next to me. The same stylist went through the same name and number routine he’d followed with me and informed him that he’d be in line just behind me.
Since I’m fairly friendly, and I love to hear people’s stories, I struck up a conversation with my fellow patron. We started with the Super Bowl, which had been played just one day prior. I prayed that he’d say nothing about the halftime show because I was sure our opinions would be worlds apart. Thankfully, he wanted to talk football, and when it became clear that he barely knew the difference between a linebacker and a punter, I tried to steer the conversation in a different direction.
I started with the area code he'd announced during his check-in. He told me it was from Beverly Hills, California, but that he’d only lived there for a few months before he moved to Boise. He was originally from Georgia. He worked two jobs now – one as a data analyst (whatever that is) and the other as a part-time gunsmith (who would have guessed?). Upon further inquiry, I found that he originally hailed from Moultrie in southern Georgia. As it turns out, I’ve been to Moultrie several times and was able to talk about south Georgia farm shows, peanuts and cotton with at least as much authority as he talked football. Our conversation lasted only a minute or two, but it was clear that I’d made a new best friend. I think it had been a long time since he’d had a Georgia conversation.
About that time, I got called to the barber’s chair and struck up another conversation with my new urban stylist. I effortlessly rattled off the deets of my preferred hair style. When he asked me if I wanted the back square or round, I told him I didn’t care, nor did I know why I might prefer one style over the other. He gave me a short tutorial on why he figured I’d prefer the rounded style and proceeded to give me the same.
I walked out of that big-name haircut joint with a renewed belief in my ability to learn new things but more importantly, a commitment to myself to withhold my judgment of life’s fellow travelers until I’ve at least opened the book.
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