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One down, one to go

I’ve had my alarm clock since I was seven years old, and it’s served me faithfully every morning since then. It’s a vintage piece of eighties retro if there ever was one, with handsome wood grain paneling and such. Of course, it only works when you remember to turn it on; this morning, I woke up not to the familiar grunge rock of 107.7 FM, but to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window. It was 7:45, and I had about 20 minutes to get out of the house if I wanted to make my final on time. This was just enough time to make a double shot of espresso and gulp it down in between shoveling cereal into my mouth. The final passed uneventfully.

I got a haircut today, much to everyone’s exaltation / chagrin. Everyone I know had a strong opinion on the matter, but they couldn’t reach a consensus. I was ambivalent myself because, on the one hand, hair of that length represents a considerable investment, but on the other, it’s just hair and it will grow back anyway, and my ears itch all the time. Monica, the blonde hairdresser down at Rudy’s on the Ave., today claimed her rightful spot as my regular barber. I haven’t had a regular since high school, and the intermittent hodge-podge of outlaw bikers, senile old men, and lisping homosexuals has had my poor coiffure not knowing what to expect.

Haircuts are important to me. I don’t really care about my hair that much, but I like to feel like my barber cares about my hair, like they’ve taken the time to lovingly name each one before snipping its lifeline short; the process is at least as important as the outcome. The worst was the outlaw biker mentioned above. The guy was dressed in all leather, 6’0″, 300 pounds, with a foot-long white beard. I wanted to wait for someone else in the shop to become available, but frankly, I was afraid he’d respond to the disrespect by beating the living bejesus out of me. He clenched my head in one huge hand, much as one might hold a coconut before slicing the top with a machete. There was no water spray, no combing, no foreplay of any kind; he just started in with the electric clippers, taking rough, casual swipes at my head seemingly at random. I closed my eyes early on, not wanting to look, but it turned out pretty well. Still, the whole procedure took less than ten minutes, and I felt violated, cheated.

Getting a hair cut by Monica, on the other hand, is a holistic, sensual experience rivaled only by physical intimacy on the order of heavy petting. Monica has no use for electric tools, favoring instead her skillful digits, generous squirts of water, and razor-sharp cutting utensils that are her inheritance from barbers of generations ago. Her hands were constantly in contact with my scalp, massaging as her scissors clicked delicately, and several times she tousled my whole head like I was a rowdy neighbor boy. She gave me her card at the end, and I think we may have shared a moment.

My STAT final is in a little less than thirteen hours, and then I’ll be free from Dr. Rose’s idiosyncrasies forever. In case you forgot, the party follows immediately, at my apartment.

And if you’re trying to avoid studying for finals, I found this and this to be very effective.

Posted in Musings.


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