Saturday, January 27, 2018
[fragment]
How does one begin to describe Saturday mornings? That lazy, lay-in-bed, nothing-to-do, no-where-to-go feeling. Is this what retirement feels like?
I hoist myself up, lean against headboard, adjust the laptop and screen brightness and begin ingesting data, photos, emails and the morning news. There’s a Metro North train whistle in the distance, Manhattan bound. Thank God that’s not me.
It’s 7:34 a.m. 16 minutes from opening. We’ve officially boycotted The Salon after the last and final experience in Red Lines, Banalities and Grumpy Middle Aged Men.
So, we’re back. Back to Barber Shop. I pull into the lot at 7:57 a.m. and a “We’re Open” sign hangs from the door.
“Good morning!”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, anyone is fine.”
“Ok, no worries, we’ll be right with you.”
Wait time: 2 minutes.
“How would you like it?”
“Not short. Light trim, please.” Are you kidding? Crew cut. Tight. High and Tight. Flat top. Trim. This is a Barber Shop. Like it matters. The precision here is akin to cutting your lawn with a scythe v. a Honda power mower.
He grabs his bottle and spritzes me. Water droplets snail down my forehead. The mist clears, and there is me, staring at me in the mirror. Wow. Look at you. When did this happen? A few desperate hairs cover the front end of your scalp. That ain’t a flattering picture Pal.
And he gets after it. With a whole lot of electric clipper and not much scissor.
