If you find a good doctor, stick with them. If you find a good car mechanic, stick with them. If you find a good bartender, stick with them. And as I’ve found out today, if you find someone that cuts your hair well, stick with them.
When I lived in Iowa, I had the perfect person to cut my hair. Her name was Sou. I could go in there, tell her how I wanted my hair cut, and she would proceed to cut with precision and mastery. I always walked away knowing I got exactly what I wanted and completely satisfied. Every time, with no second-guessing. Then I moved away from Iowa and haven’t been satisfied since. I’ve even contemplated never letting anyone else touch my hair unless her name was Sou but the possibility of going years without a haircut was something I just couldn’t justify. Sou eventually moved to the state of Washington so even if I went back to visit Iowa, I would have to plan my vacation there with hers. That was not only not going to happen but seemed rather stalker-ish for just a haircut.
Since I’ve been living in San Diego, I’ve found a few people that have cut my hair but I always come away saying, “Good enough for government work,” which is pretty much like saying, “Not perfect but whatever works.” Last week a co-worker gave me a gift certificate good enough for one free cut at the place he goes to all the time. I knew it would be no Sou but I figured since it was free I had nothing to lose.
I walked in to the place, an old-school style barbershop that was very comforting, and found five people sitting in there waiting for a haircut. Obviously this place has a good reputation, which was also a comforting thought. The banter was friendly immediately upon walking in, as the tattooed punk-rocker cutting hair said, “How’s it going? I’ll be with you in a bit. If you want, there’s beer in the mini-fridge.” And he wasn’t joking. It was packed full of PBRs and was on the house. I am not much of a drinker but was impressed just the same. Others there were smoking cigars, drinking Pabst tall-boys from a can, jovially talking as the three military men in there were getting their razor-cut military fades. The fact that these guys were getting their hair cut there didn’t bother me one bit because this was not that kind of place and it was obvious from the other two waiting to get their long hair simply cleaned up that this place did it all.
I sat down and joined in the conversation, ranging from the U.S. flag to cars made prior to 1950 to the cost of living in Detroit. In between cuts, the guy cutting hair would smoke a cigarette as if each cut was a sexual experience and he had just blown his load but was only needing a break to rise to the next occasion. The term “fluffer” came to mind but that’s as far as I let that thought go. After sitting there for two hours, it was finally my turn in the chair.
“How do you want it?” he asked, so I told him. He informed me, correctly, that the style I wanted wasn’t going to be exact because I simply don’t have thick enough hair nor enough hair. I knew this going in and was okay with that and also was okay with him saying, “We’ll get it as close as possible.” I had faith.
He threw the cape over me, wrapped my neck with the white cloth, then noticed my psoriasis. Now, this has always been my self-conscious hang-up. It has kept me from getting a proper tan due to embarrassment from it and has always been a concern of mine when trying to find someone to cut my hair. Sou never had a problem with it (from what I could tell) and always made me seem to forget I had it. My hair was always cut just enough to keep it and my disquiet covered. Today, though, the guy cutting my hair made it his mission to make it obvious to everyone in the tiny barbershop. He loudly peppered me with questions and told stories of other heads he has seen that had the same problem. He also said he had just the thing to help, too, which I was more than happy to try because there’s nothing like taking pills and using steroidal creams and lotions with no success. His “cure” was a waxy goo named pomade. He explained how to use it, what it looked like, and as he gunked my head with this stuff, he slyly slipped in the fact that he was putting enough oil in there to last a year. I thought he was exaggerating. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized he wasn’t.
I left the barbershop with my hair slicked back like a greaser, as if I should have a pack of smokes rolled in my t-shirt sleeves as I’m hopping into my ’57 Chevy. Instead the smokes were in my pocket as I fell into my Saturn.
I knew upon immediate glance, even with my glasses off, that I was never going to use this stuff. My hair felt as if I could break a board over it without the board ever touching my scalp. I thanked him just the same, gave him a tip (because really, the haircut was free and he was trying to help), then drove off with the strongest desire to wash my hair than I’ve ever had. I hopped in the shower and could feel the water simply bouncing off my head. I lathered up my hand with shampoo and dove in. I scrubbed, rubbed and even tried combing it out. After rinsing, still there. I lathered up again and let the shampoo sit there for a few minutes. Again, still there. I got out and tried to dry my head but my towel simply stuck to my head. It was clear this pomade was not coming out. Then, the phone rang. It was my buddy Nate. I informed him of my situation and he laughed, and rightly so. Then it dawned on me that I should talk to his girlfriend, someone who would have knowledge of what I could do to get this nastiness out of my hair. Her advice was fantastic, a bright light in a dark day. She said to use dish-washing soap to cut the grease. It was genius. She said that I’d have to do it at least two or three times and would have to really rub the soap in. With a new sense of purpose, I hung up the phone and ran to the kitchen to grab the Dawn dish-washing soap.
I went back in to the bathroom, got the water running, got my hair as wet as it could be given the pomade circumstance, and dove in. I rubbed, scrubbed, shined to the point where my scalp was beginning to burn. I rinsed, could start to actually feel my hair, got excited, then sudsed up again. Since the guy said he put enough oil in my hair to last a year, I figured two times of the Dawn cure wouldn’t be enough. I repeated the process six times until my scalp was screaming at me to stop. Needless to say I need to get more dish-washing detergent. I dried my hair but realized I was nowhere near free and clear from the pomade. So I gave up. It was much better than the time prior to the Dawn experience (which was a first) but it still was greasy, stiff, and in some places kind of clumpy.
So now I sit here typing this out, every few minutes touching my hair with frustration. I realize this is going to take time to clean up. I understand hair grows back but at this age, it grows back at a much slower pace than it once did and even not everywhere it used to. And I don’t have Sou to save me.
