I had a hair cut today. It was a normal routine. Once a month haircut which totally went against my astute principles. Principle being that you shouldn't fix what's not broke. Something the people at work try their best to smash against the brick wall daily spewing crap like "How could we have done this better", but that's a story for a thesis and not a post. Everytime I go for a haircut, a part of me dies. Be it the hidden lice only I can find [or imagine] or that last follicle screaming bloody murder.
Today, I had my hair cut by the quietest of the 3 who ply their trade at the shop. My usual dude was busy trying to figure out what the balding guy meant by "cut short". Stopping short of donning magnifying glasses, he busied himself with all the tools of his trade. He even had time for a neck rub, all in the vain bid to convince the customer his hair was not only short, it was close to negligent and thank you for the 8 bucks [yes sirree, it still costs 8 here. but people I know still feel the need to lie that they're students to lower it down to 6 dungas]
My usual dude always makes me feel like it was the Reverend Paul Mitchell [reverend cos some regard the art work as a religion]. He had this demeanor. This artist like way of moving about. Sliding on the balls of his feet. Whoosh-ing air outa the way. His blades were Ginsu knives. Thing is, he never ever said anything or did anything to make it obvious that he was apparently some artistik genius marooned in a fluorescent tube lighted HDB shophouse. But it was something. It was the atmosphere. The aura if you will.
Today, the dude who cut me spoke "no Engrish". So I had to show him how "duan" I needed my fringe to be. Unknown to me and most of the people I'm surrounded by day to day, this important component of any hair cut apparently dangled down to the lips. I did feel something smacking me on the nose during my runs this week, but I deferred it to God's presence in notifying me I had a fat nose and something needed to be done about it. [apparently, simply NOT facing straight on in photos wasn't going to cut the trick]
A few strokes and snips later, I realized I knew this guy who wasbutchering barbering my hair. It was me. At first he started with a poise that was usual of anyone attacking a new mop of untended pasture brought to their attention. Soon, I noticed that his comb-ended strokes began to take on a rhythm of monotony. How monotony had a rhythm, you only have to imagine. It was going on this way for a coupla minutes [thankfully he was at the top of my head which doesn't matter to the overall fash hag mag look].
Then suddenly he stopped short and caught himself like my angel fish realizing that brown speck was the fighting fish's excrement and not food flakes. He took charge of the situation. He pondered a split second as to why he had allowed himself to be lulled into this "same shit different head" dream/nightmare. He grabbed hold of himself. Looked again at the objective, the tools he needed to achieve it and went for it out of instinct. He repaired his earlier mis-managed but "not wrong" cuts. He decided to put his personal signature on it.
The instant I saw what was playing out like a dark drama at The SubStation, I knew this was not a guy who sweat the small stuff. [to all engrish xxxperts: does sweat have a past tense?]. I knew he was going to give me the best cut I ever had in record time. He didn't need to bandy about and exhibit haute couture style. He knew what he had to do. And he would just go ahead and do it. Some times along the way, he'd fall into this chasm. This abyss that makes him conform to what everyone was doing. That monotony. But he was gonna break out of it. Sooner or later. Be it when it pricked him enough that he had to get the tattooist to stop. Or when he heard a polyphonic SMS tone that shocked him so hard, he nearly slit his customer's throat [yours truly].
A demain.
Today, I had my hair cut by the quietest of the 3 who ply their trade at the shop. My usual dude was busy trying to figure out what the balding guy meant by "cut short". Stopping short of donning magnifying glasses, he busied himself with all the tools of his trade. He even had time for a neck rub, all in the vain bid to convince the customer his hair was not only short, it was close to negligent and thank you for the 8 bucks [yes sirree, it still costs 8 here. but people I know still feel the need to lie that they're students to lower it down to 6 dungas]
My usual dude always makes me feel like it was the Reverend Paul Mitchell [reverend cos some regard the art work as a religion]. He had this demeanor. This artist like way of moving about. Sliding on the balls of his feet. Whoosh-ing air outa the way. His blades were Ginsu knives. Thing is, he never ever said anything or did anything to make it obvious that he was apparently some artistik genius marooned in a fluorescent tube lighted HDB shophouse. But it was something. It was the atmosphere. The aura if you will.
Today, the dude who cut me spoke "no Engrish". So I had to show him how "duan" I needed my fringe to be. Unknown to me and most of the people I'm surrounded by day to day, this important component of any hair cut apparently dangled down to the lips. I did feel something smacking me on the nose during my runs this week, but I deferred it to God's presence in notifying me I had a fat nose and something needed to be done about it. [apparently, simply NOT facing straight on in photos wasn't going to cut the trick]
A few strokes and snips later, I realized I knew this guy who was
Then suddenly he stopped short and caught himself like my angel fish realizing that brown speck was the fighting fish's excrement and not food flakes. He took charge of the situation. He pondered a split second as to why he had allowed himself to be lulled into this "same shit different head" dream/nightmare. He grabbed hold of himself. Looked again at the objective, the tools he needed to achieve it and went for it out of instinct. He repaired his earlier mis-managed but "not wrong" cuts. He decided to put his personal signature on it.
The instant I saw what was playing out like a dark drama at The SubStation, I knew this was not a guy who sweat the small stuff. [to all engrish xxxperts: does sweat have a past tense?]. I knew he was going to give me the best cut I ever had in record time. He didn't need to bandy about and exhibit haute couture style. He knew what he had to do. And he would just go ahead and do it. Some times along the way, he'd fall into this chasm. This abyss that makes him conform to what everyone was doing. That monotony. But he was gonna break out of it. Sooner or later. Be it when it pricked him enough that he had to get the tattooist to stop. Or when he heard a polyphonic SMS tone that shocked him so hard, he nearly slit his customer's throat [yours truly].
"Whenever there is a hard job to be done I assign it to a lazy man; he is sure to find an easy way of doing it.” - Walter Chrysler
A demain.
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