The Barber Gets Nervous

Everyone who knows me is only too aware of the heartbreak of my dry, unruly and indeed spasmodic hair. On every landscape it is the most acute embarrassment. People pass by and I can tell they are uncomfortable. I appreciate the sensitive restraint they show by not gasping aloud, but do not think for even a second that I am fooled into believing they do not recognize my deformity. Your liberal sympathies do nothing to unshackle me from the grotesque manacles which grow long and bushy atop my cursed dome.  

Well, so anyway, where does the goon get his locks chopped? What really does it matter? Where does a shag carpet go to get butchered into garbage? What tools are used? What process? Does anyone care? I’ll tell you what I do. I go to Barber College on 2nd avenue and 6th street in the East Village, where haircuts- any and all- are five dollars. Why five dollars? Because these are barbers in training, practically hostages, who need to work a certain number of hours in order to get earn a license to make a living. 

When I walk in there, as I did this previous Wednesday, the apprentice barber inevitably turns a jaundiced, ghastly shade of yellow. He then turns to the Master Barber with an expression most appropriately described as mortal anxiety. This is, after all, his livelihood. If he something were to go drastically wrong, he may not be able to feed his loved ones. They can’t pick their clientele, they can’t turn customers away. The apprentice barber sees me and then looks at the Master Barber wide eyed- his expression says: “I can’t do this. It can’t be done.” The Master Barber turns a stern and sanguine eye towards the apprentice: “You must take ALL customers”.  Then I approach and occupy the chair. The apprentice barber looks at me, and then looks at all the tools at his disposal- the shears, combs, clippers, lotions and potions. He fumbles nervously. He doesn’t know where to begin. “What……do you want me to do?” he inquires timidly, to which I shrug and say: “I’m just looking for a little trim.” Sometimes I will say this with a bit of a coy smile, which just heightens the discomfort to an almost unbearable level.  

Even though it’s only five dollars, barber college takes a long time, because the Master Barber has to come over every few minutes and check to see if everything is okay. Of course, in my case it never is. They cut and comb and shave and spray and I just look worse and worse. I can think of few sadder spectacles in the world then the crestfallen expression of the apprentice barber when he recognizes at the finish line that all of his passionate labor has only made the gargoyle in the mirror look scarier. Then the Master Barber tries to console him, but it is no use. Hair care has lost an apprentice. 

I guess you want to know if I feel bad about all of this? That’s sort of a complex question. I mean, I certainly don’t feel good about it.  I’m not an angry person. I have a little anger, I guess, but I’m not vindictive. I guess I’m like most handicapped people: irritable, but still trying to make the Olympics.  

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