Hair Cut

I got my hair cut yesterday. Off all the male grooming procedures out there, I think I enjoy this one the most. A skilled hand working its way around your head, the snip snip of the clippers, the soft buzz of the electric trimmer. Its living the good life, if only for 15 minutes.

I like my guy here in London as well. He has a real sense of style and always offers me a whisky when I stop by. Not quite sure about that one, but he never partakes, so I feel confident that he isn't drunk behind the wheel. I do find it a little odd that he has a very confident, manly photograph of himself in the shop where he is showing off his hair style. This has always confused me because it obviously isn't an example of his own work. I mean, he isn't cutting his own hair, is he? When I was a kid, I remember hearing a story of a Japanese surgeon who removed some malfunctioning part of his anatomy, but I have to believe that cutting your own hair is a little more difficult. When you are dissecting yourself, you don't really need the aid of a mirror, but when you cut your hair, you need to use it. Left is right, right is left -- it just gets too complicated.

But I was also thinking that my guy is a little misguided on the business front. He kept pushing me to cut is a little bit shorter. I gave into his whimsy a couple of times, but at one point I had to call it. It was short enough. But, as a man cutting hair in a London suburb, he relies on repeat customers. He isn't one of these central haircutters who rely on passers-by, tourists and vagrants. Repeat customers are his life blood. The best kind of repeat customer is the frequent repeat customer. The longer he can get me to leave my hair, the sooner I'll be in the chair, but if he perfers a job well done to the hope of a more frequent customer, then so be it.