It's Time You Bury That Cat

The language barrier is surprisingly easy to overcome in most situations. Just do a little mime dance, point, bow, gansamnida, and be on your way. Ok so it's not exactly the cut of meat you were looking for. Ok it's squid and not chicken. Ok he drove you to the trainstation instead of the department store. But these are simply hardships you learn to deal with. Just take it in stride. That is unless the person is holding a pair of scissors, a comb, and a spray bottle...

So getting a haircut. I HATE haircuts. And I'm terrified of hairdressers. They weild a frightening power. Power on the level with brain surgeons, tattoo artists, and political assassins. These scissor-wipping, US-weekly-reading, gum-smackers control your life. Your career, your street cool, your potential loves, and your socio-economic status all hang languidly on their fingers. Snip. Snip. Not to mention the burden of seeing it glare at you every morning.

So imagine what a daunting task it is, when you finally decide that it's time to bury that cat that curled up and died on your head weeks ago. And no one speaks your language.



Well David and I finally bit the bullet. We went together for moral support. The name of the place was in English. And they advertised themselves as a Men's Beauty Shop. There were two stylists with two occupied barber chairs. Two men waited, legs crossed, reading the paper. They scarcely glanced up when we stepped inside. There was a pictorial menu of chops on the wall. They ran from the short bowl chop at number 1 down to the Shaggy Dandy at number 10. I chose the Shaggy Dandy. Standing and pointing for the stylist when it was my turn.

She weilded her scissors with precission and patience. Not rushing. Waiting for the form to settle. Measuring. Snipping. Thinning. Layering. Carefully. I watched her every move. Of course it was too late at this point. I resigned to my appointed fate. I would only intervene if she tried to chop off my bangs.

When the hair settled to the floor and the woosh of her scissors was silent, I opened my eyes and looked at myself in the mirror. The untrained eye might not even notice a change, she was subtle. But I felt lighter. My head moved easier. And I looked quicker, more clever. She had unburdened me of useless weight, without removing even a hair of cool.

As she motioned me to the back room where I was to wash and rinse my hair, I smiled, quite pleased with the results.

And the kicker? It only cost five bucks. No tip.



Eh?

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Movie note:

Has anyone seen this movie? Beautiful and brutal. An unfiltered fairy tale for us kids who went and got grown up. Oh my, just go see it.