Almost Cut My Hair

Delilah had her blades pressed up against my livelihood when the contemplation hit me…

The currency of hair is a funny thing. The perceived value, strange. But in a country glut with the swollen belly of consumer guilt, it’s nice to know that the balance of things can be levied with a weight gifted us all at birth. Granted, some are bestowed a more generous birthright than others - only truly evident with the toll of age. Genetics steals some, cancer others. Many are betrayed by the shears of fate. But one thing is certain: hair is good. And if you have it, you can do anything.

People do not get haircuts any more. It’s passé. When we want a change - even a tiny one - we go to a “salon”. Where, in the midst of an aesthetically pleasing environment, a “stylist” will perform his or her “artistry” on the area of your body you choose to sacrifice to the gods of “makeover”. Now while this might cover everything from a manicure to a colonic, for the sake of this essay, let’s focus on that region about the skull, known as the mane area.

Delilah, (actually Kellie), had me splayed out in some back room. The lighting was dim and moody while the mini-sound system alternated between Enya and Portishead. She was massaging my temples - running her silken hands through my hair with trails of wild blueberry calming tonic - my choice. Burning candles encircled the reclining chair which contained me, while some kind of aromatherapy machine rolled out the faint redolence of a forest. But even with the competing fragrances, the bouquet of Kellie’s hands pushed through it all - a wonderful hint of nicotine blended with citrus. Or was it lemongrass? (You hang around a salon long enough, you learn these things. I had been there only 15 minutes and I was practically a metrosexual.)

Anyway, my scintillating moment with Kellie in the reclining chair was soon over. She hosed me down and ushered me across the equivalent of the Green Mile to my final destination - the “styling chair”. It didn’t look very stylish. Kellie and I were no longer alone. I sat in the midst of a sea of women - all equally as put together and provoking as Kellie - all furiously performing their beautification artistry on a bevy of fashion-challenged losers - all in their own styling chairs. I was one of them now.

My long black hair - heavily tousled and damp - hung in my eyes. A giant bib around my neck. “Strapped in”, so to speak. With Kellie’s larger than life, double-edged scissors held oh-so-threateningly to the back of my mangy locks. She had just asked, with questionable doubt, how I wanted it to be cut when that contemplation hit me. Not the one about the currency of hair. That came much, much later after a series of overly analytical sessions (while seriously inebriated, mind you) evaluating the validity of the process of hair recycling and whether it could actually save our lives. No, in that moment, the only thought that raced through my mind, screaming with terror, was: How the hell did I come to be here and how the hell can I cut this Delilah to the quick?

Ah yes, it all comes back now. That crushing moment. On I-90. Summer. A scorching hot day. About 100. Windows down. My hair blowing back for miles. Radiohead’s Kid A cranked to 11. Cruising. 75 mph. My girl beside me in a hot-pink halter-top, daisy-dukes and nothing to do but drive and drink ice cold lemonade through bendy straws. Beautiful. Then, like a blur, some passing juvie in a pick-up from Wisconsin yells out a verbal assault like no other. It didn’t register immediately, of course. My ears were filled with Tom Yorke’s melancholy melodies. But then my girl touches my arm and carefully asks me, “Did you hear what that kid said?” Actually, I hadn’t, so she told me. In an instant, the entire 2 seconds replayed itself in my brain, and I saw clearly what my fragility had blocked the first time… This little bastard. This smarmy, little, illiterate, good for nothing little shit from some dairy farm in Wisconsin. Pudgy little fucker with his portly, heifer-like parents - incapable of putting a muzzle on their ignorant, smart ass spawn. Was going to tell me - in a very cowardly manner, mind you - to “get a haircut”. Well, needless to say, I chased them and their cattle wagon for miles - to the dismay of my frantic girlfriend. I was determined to corner this devil child in a rest stop bathroom, where blood would most definitely be spilled. Fortunately, before I caught the fat little mother scratcher, they exited the freeway enroute to their motherland, and I didn’t want to spend my Sunday afternoon staking out some feed store. So, I let it go. I thought. Yet… here I was about to make a deposit to Locks of Love. Because of some adolescent little milk boy’s disregard for human decency. My subconscious was fucking with me. This just could not be.

Well, even though I thought Kellie was a real nice girl, and I really enjoyed being slathered up with that wild blueberry calming tonic, I did the thing any self respecting hippie would do in a moment like that…I pulled the pony tail scrunchy off of my wrist - gathered my hair up, out of harms way, and pulled it back behind my head. Where it belonged. Then, I bid the proper adieus to all my lovely company, leaving them shaking in admiration and affection through the crosshairs of my fingers - formed into a peace symbol. But only after, of course, tipping my stylist.