The following actually happened a couple of days ago. It's taken me a little time for my bruised ego to heal so I could write about it ...
So there I sat, patiently waiting my turn. My attention focused on a woman's home-and-garden magazine as I read about the "6 ways to please your plant." (You never know when you might be married to a frustrated vegetable. And I've already gone through one marriage to a fruit cake. So I was preparing myself. As I climb that relationship ladder, I just might be able to move from the dessert section up to the plant kingdom in my quest to that top rung where a real woman awaits.)
So there I sat in the hair salon, waiting, reading, comfortable, when a flash of lightening stuck outside. Then, the usual boom of thunder and the flicker of electrical power. "Oh no!" shouted one of the hair stylists, "The air conditioner has stopped." A few minutes later, she announced further disastrous news, "The temperature has gone from 77 to 79! Call someone! Quick!" Knowing what could happen next, I buried my face deeper into the magazine.
All I wanted my hair cut. And by the same woman who has dealt with my mane for these past 15 years. Because she does such a good job, I've tried to keep my business with her at all costs. Even when the bad economy of a few years ago forced her to close her barber shop and move. Even when she set up a new business in this den of old, blue-haired ladies, highlighted gossip, and permanent drama that would curl your hair. And your lips.
So there I sat, reading, not as comfortable now, ignoring the commotion, and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Then my area became noticeably dimmer. One of the stylists - an immense gal with a butch haircut - stood in front of me, eclipsing the light. One of her chubby hands on her ample hip, her other hand - surrounded by charm bracelet charms of the Venus symbol, NOW letters, and an intimidating feminist logo squeezing the life out of a limp Mars symbol - pointed at me. The charms jangled in rhythm with the jiggle of her forearm's loose flesh. In a loud, accusatory voice, she said, "You're a man! What are YOU going to do about this?!"
I never felt so violated in all of my life (aside from that IRS audit). I just want to be loved for my brains, not for my brawn. (Ok, for my brawn, too.)
I stood up. Slowly. Around large, angry mammals, I know the importance of the "no sudden movement" rule. "I'll reset the circuit breaker," I said, avoiding eye contact. "This might reset the air conditioner. The lights will go off for a few seconds, but they should come back on." The other women silently nodded their approval as I strolled to the back room.
I flicked the breaker. Even with my warning, a woman screamed. "Maybe someone took advantage of the momentary darkness and use a pair of scissors in a merciful manner," I thought. But no. Upon returning, the only murderous act I found was some old lady's hair dyeing.
With mounting hysteria in her voice, another woman reported on our impending doom. "It's at 81 degrees now!" she said with the drama of a soap opera.
I opened the front of the shop just as the store owner from next door opened his entrance. "Is your A/C out?" I asked. With the brevity that only comes from the Y chromosome, he motioned with his chin, grunted "Yep", and surveyed the darkening sky.
A brilliant bolt of lightening interrupted our manly chat and killed all the power to the building. From the darkness behind me, I heard the wailing and cursing as the ensuing apocalypse stampeded towards the door, towards the fresh air, towards the beckoning daylight. I did what any gentleman would have done (and any one with a sense of self preservation), I quickly stepped aside.
So, finally, there I stood, uncomfortable, and rescheduled my appointment by the glow of a flickering cell phone. Of course, maybe a smarter man would consider a different time and place for a haircut that involves less drama - say, a trim using a high-powered fan and an electric weed-whacker. Maybe I could suggest this to my stylist and ask her to come to my house. I wonder if she likes vegetables.
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