The Saga of the Single Toothed Barber

Of the nearly forty-seven barbers and hair salons in my neighborhood, i mistakenly went to the with the "Engrish" on the door.

I would like to take the time to preface this story with a bit of background history about me and my hair. My hair and I have a wonderful relationship. For the past eight or ten years I have done nothing to upset my short brown locks and vice-versa. My hair style has not changed in that time and the only care i usually do is a daily shampoo and a bi-quarterly cut at the local Supercuts. In the last decade, I have only ventured out of my hair comfort zone a handful of times; each and every one of those times I have been disappointed in the result of the hair removal.

This time was a bit different. I walked into this family owned barber shop knowing that i was going to feel violated upon the termination of this transaction. Though I attempted to prepare myself mentally and verbally for this confrontation, i knew i was not going to leave this place a happy camper. Now, I am not usually a stickler about my own personal appearance, my hair is the only thing i would ever demand a refund for upon a butchery. At home, at my local Supercuts, all i had to say was, "Number 2 on the sides, about an inch off the top." With that simple, incomplete sentence, I received years of perfect haircuts. Today's assassination, though expected, was not nearly as awful as it could have been, I am merely being dramatic as i feel it makes this blog more interesting to read.

The event began with the ritualistic mumble of the phrase, "welcome" in Japanese. At this point my brain was screaming, "run, throw a flash grenade or a smoke bomb, but just run away..." But i could not turn back, I already asked the price and nodded in reluctant agreement. Suddenly, I was ushered into the seat and bombarded with rapid Japanese. Only then did i realize that the old woman in the apron was still shorter than me even though i was sitting down and the old man was bald and had only one yellow tooth. I smiled. (i made mental notes of everything because i knew i would be writing about it here) I told the barber that i would like my hair cut short on the sides and leave the top long enough so i could style it to my own liking. Well, that's what it sounded like in my head, but in reality, it sounded like, "short...here...long...here..." in Japanese. Then i made a sound and a hand motion. It was the sound you would expect the Nike "swoosh" symbol to make if it moved passed your ear really quickly. I did this to symbolize the signature upward turn my hair has grown accustom to over the last decade. Then i showed the man a picture so he would know exactly how i style my hair. He nodded and prepared his scissors and combs.

It was at this point that i felt resigned to my fate. It was also at this time when decided that i would be going to the local department store to purchase a hat.

I give the man a lot of credit. He did his best. I was engrossed in the even cutting of every hair on my head. He even trimmed my beard. But i will admit that when the hot lather and the straight razor came out, i tensed a little. I not sure why, maybe it was the fact that he looked like he was a hundred and thirty-seven years old and his hands were permanently crooked as if he held a pair of scissors. After the shave, i felt more relaxed. I should have noticed that he was wrapping up the cutting session when the hot towels and the blow-dryer came out. It was then that i realized that he did not actually cut the top of my hair. He made it look like he did, but my hair is the same length now as it was when i went into his shop. I suppose im not upset, it was an interesting experience. It gives me the excuse to learn how to cut my own hair now, because i have to fix what this guy failed to cut. At the moment, my hair does not look awful, but it's not me.

-Gio