I’m hoping for a little trim…

I met a guy named Chuck at my local cigar hangout recently.

Chuck liked my hair.

Said he wanted to cut it.

Said he had a hair place.

He didn’t look anything like Buffalo Bill,  so I would’ve helped him pushing that couch into his van, but hello?  Lit cigar.  Busy.

Would you do...my hair? I'd totally do my hair. I'd do my hair so hard.

Before he went looking for someone else to help him with his couch and we parted ways with a slightly limp-wristed handshake, he mentioned with a bit of disdain that “we don’t do ‘ten bucks and tits’ at my hair place.”   (Insert Scooby Doo “Ruh?”  noise here.)

My 'Sexy Stylist' for the day, DanielleYou need to know – it’s only in the last 7 months that I’ve let my hair grow out, so I’m having to reintroduce myself to the world of hair cutting and hair products.  I’d totally forgotten about the television ads for the “dude parlors” with their big screen TVs, free chips and drinks, and of course, tits.  Thanks for reminding me, Chuck.

I mean, it’s only hair, right? And it’s ten bucks.   If I get a terrible cut from a buxom blond, I can always buzz it and grow new.  Hair’s cool that way.  Plus, it’s cheaper than a cover charge to a strip club, and I’d get about the same amount of body contact.  I think.  I’ve only ever been to a strip club once.   That I remember.  Sorta.  And why was my underwear ripped in two and in my pocket the next morning?  So many questions.

Where was I?   Right.  Hooters girls with scissors.

I get to my appointment and pretty much see what I expect to see:

  • A dude that just paid $25 for a #1 clipper cut.
  • Two other dudes sitting far apart from each other, waiting for their cuts, trying not to make eye contact with any other man.   Like it’d ruin the fantasy or something.
  • Two attractive women wearing, well, if you’re sitting down? Things get a little cheeky.

Why is my head so enormous?But honestly?  That’s where the whole façade disintegrated.  I’m not sure what I was expecting – getting a lapper while she cut my bangs or the offer of a “motorboat special,” but once I sat in the chair, it was all business. Danielle, my “Sexy Stylist,” had the usual shit in her stall.   Picture of her kid, ubiquitous fridge-worthy kid artwork.   No grinding on the barber chair.  No arms-up twirling between working on the left sideburn and the right.  Totally NOT wood-inducing.

And I’m a chatter, but despite the pig suit I don when I write here, in real life I’m not the same person.  So none of the conversation contained “tits” or “toots.”  Just a dude, getting his hair cut.  By a chick with her boobs hangin’ out.  Talking about work, kids and gas prices.  And how they used to have bouncers here.  And the mid-day drunks that come in looking for a little trim.

And honestly?  The two heaving gorillas in the room made the conversation a little awkward, especially since I knew she had sharp objects in her hands, but Danielle made up for it by being very communicative about where she should cut, how much to cut, etc.  She actually seemed more interested in giving me a decent cut than an equally-priced Fantasticutters bowl job.

And when it was done, she had.  I passed on the after-cut massage.   (See?  So not a pig.)

The thing is, I’ve had women show more cleavage at trade shows selling diamond brick-cutting blades.  This was a good, no-nonsense cut executed by a friendly stylist who happened to have ass cheeks I could see if I looked at the correct angle.  No big whup.