QMusings

I go to this hip hair salon. The local version of hip means:

• Coffee bar on the premises
• DJ in the loft
• Unfinished brick walls
• Twisted chrome chandeliers
• Every single stylist has multiple tattoos
• All the stylists dress artistically.

Ms. Q is Inimitable. She is not particularly hip. The stylists are talented and the prices reasonable.

When I first started going to the salon, I had such good luck with the various stylists I thought they were all good. I did end up liking on in particular and was always trying to schedule with her.

One time I really needed a cut and she wasn’t available. I made an appointment with someone else and thought nothing of it.

I have short hair. I don’t like to fuss with it. A good cut requires minimal fussing. A bad cut means I might have to add “product” to my hair.

I do use a little “product.” If I didn’t, I’d look like a dandelion. A bad cut requires more than a little product.

A bad cut means you keep adding more product in the hopes that your head won’t look lopsided and all you end up with is a greasy looking, lopsided, product-infused head.

My unhip self arrives at the hip salon. I check in at the front desk - flat panel monitors, frosted glass, yadda-yadda-yadda.

The receptionists are very nice. When I see them I’m glad I’m so LL Beanish because their clothing looks so complicated.

I’m told that Byron is ready to see me. That isn’t his real name but it suits.

Byron makes me think of the 70s and this is not a good thing. I have no idea why he makes me think of the 1970s but he does. He is this skinny white guy with narrow haunches and a narrower jaw. He had sandy wavy hair worn a bit long and it was thick, stiff, and wig-like.

I’m prepared to like him since all the other stylists were talented as well as nice.

I am sure you’re getting that Feeling of Foreboding. Or as my Mom would say, Portents Of Doom.

Byron asks me what I want, I tell him, and he gets to work.

Before I know it, he’s almost done. About 20 minutes have passed. Now, this is not a cheap salon. It’s not expensive, either. Prior to Byron, all the other stylists took about 45 minutes to an hour to cut my hair including a shampoo.

Byron did shampoo my hair but his cutting was perfunctory. I was trying to make small talk but he was having none of it.

I notice that the hair at the base of my neck is sticking out. I point it out to him and flatter him by mentioning that he’s the expert, I hope he can fix it.

Byron tilts his head. He purses his lips. I begin to fixate on his under bite and narrow jaw.

I am beginning to feel a bit irritated.

Byron snips off the errant hairs and announces, “You have a cowlick.”

Uh. Huh.

I reply that I’ve been told this yet somehow the other stylists have managed to subdue it.

More head tilting and some ineffective snipping.

I mention that the other sylists have managed my cowlick and how would he keep it from sticking out like that?

Head tilt, lip purse and this time he tucks an arm in, holding up his shears.

“I would cut it.” Snip.

Ms. Q is not a violent person but somehow Byron’s who-gives-a-sh*t attitude made her think of Star Trek.

The original Star Trek. The Fire photon torpedoes. Go. Where. No. Man. Has. Gone. Be. For. Star Trek.

So anyway, I’m sitting there with my cowlick and hoping that Byron can make the connection that happy clients equal repeat clients.

Then I think perhaps he’s just not that great a stylist and I should get out while the getting was good.

I mention the errant hairs again and Byron runs a comb through them, purses his narrow lips and says, “It is what it is.”

Great. Just freakin’ great.

I git while the gittin’s good because it’s Just Hair and it’s not worth going to prison for.

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