14 January 2007
Since I was a child there have been two seemingly healthy activities which I despise: Going to the dentist, and getting my haircut. The former has to do with my inability to willingly allow another human being to administer my oral region. My teeth, be they crooked, stained and otherwise unattractive, are mine and mine alone to worry about. There’s enough fodder in that for another post entirely. The latter of the two hates deals less with my distain of being handled by someone besides my wife, and more with the hassle of the activity itself. I’ve always felt that the time it takes to have my hair cut is better spent doing any number of other things – writing a blog post, for example.
Making the appointment, going to the salon, waiting for the barber, small-talking with the barber, trying to explain your desired “look”, getting a shampoo, getting hair in your mouth, tilting your head, getting nauseous because of the weird hair product smells, small-talking with the barber (and possibly other guests), waiting for the barber to finish, tilting your head, getting hair in your eyes, etc. are all elements that, added together, equal a not-so-fun experience I consider a necessary evil.
Necessary because … ?
Actually, I used to question whether or not I was even required to get my hair cut. There was a brief (thank the Lord) season in my life when I forwent the activity altogether. (I have my senior-class pictures to remind me of such a dark-age.) I have since accepted the harsh reality that it is, in fact, quite necessary to have ones hair cut regularly.
The truth is my acceptance of this reality has evolved into a full-blown conviction.
For that, I (partially) blame my pastor and mentor. I think he could’ve easily become a clothing designer had the whole preaching thing not worked out. His ultra-hip, ultra-metro and oh-so-cool style is only reinforced by his hair. Yes, his hair. His style is beyond me, and as a disciple of his, I cannot bare the shame of my uncoolness – I must at least try to follow in his footsteps.
It was one thing when I would go for the $5 haircut from Cutz-R-Us or whatever value-based salon, but now that the bar has been raised so high, I fear the activity has become an event; an event worthy of appointment, research, counsel, preparation and even rehearsal.
So I have a “stylist”, and I endure aforementioned “hassle” regularly. Call it keeping up with The Joneses (or Smiths) if you want. I consider it a high calling, worthy of sacrificing personal hatred.