Grey Matter

I rarely enjoy sitting in that chair. I may be a bit dramatic when I say this but I sometimes feel I give up a bit of my freedom, my time, and my soul while sitting there. Oh, yeah, and some of my hair, too. It is that time when someone gets up close to your face with a pair of scissors to snip away at this odd stuff that grows on the top and sides of your head.

I generally don’t enjoy the small talk that has to be engaged in during this time. That is no reflection on anyone other than me. It is solely my issue. Unless I know you very well, I probably won’t go into great detail about my life during this time. I really just want to get my haircut, pay someone for their effort and be on my way.

Since I have never been able to figure out exactly how to cut my own hair without a gigantic bowl, a huge mirror, an old pair of rusty scissors and a third hand on a very long arm, I have to trust others to do this for me. This means that every few months, I make the drive to the nearest style shop to get my ‘do did.

As I write this, I went through this process about a week ago. The young lady who cut my hair kept the talk to a minimum. That was likely a good thing as the shop was busy so it could have been hard to carry on yet one more conversation amidst the three or four other ongoing conversations while the greatest hits of the 80s, 90s and beyond played over the speakers.

I have a basic hairstyle. Buzz the sides, scissor cut the top, shave my hairy neck then let me look at the back of my head with a mirror. Follow these simple steps and we can be done within ten minutes.

While we were in the middle of this most recent haircut, my stylist had to turn away for a moment. I took the time to look down at the black smock she had covered over me. There, all over it, were small, wet snips of my hair. As I looked closer, my brown hair was mingled with plenty of grey hair.

It’s been that way for several years now. This happens to many of us as we grow older. Hair turns loose or turns colors. I am glad mine is hanging in there even if it has to change from my childhood brown to a more, er, dignified, grey. It shouldn't be grey I tell myself. It wasn't that long ago when Dad took me to the barber shop where I had my turn getting my "ears lowered" then sat quietly looking at the fishing and hunting magazines while Dad got a haircut and a shave.

Soon enough, the latest cut was over. The stylist removed the smock as I watched my hair fall all over the floor. I paid her for her work and left. As I turned toward the door, someone was sweeping up my hair and somehow I flashed back to the old days of the barber shop from my childhood and those two worlds collided. I got in my car, turned on the ignition and began to back out of the parking space. I glanced in the rear view mirror running my eyes over my new haircut then stopped with a brief look into my own eyes. I smiled as if to say, “Hair today, gone tomorrow.”