Guest Blog Entry - Submitted by Raphe G.

Most barbers, at least those who cut men’s hair, seem to have abandoned crude 20th-Century implements like scissors in favor of largely self-operating electric clippers that allow the barber to ascertain your preferred hairstyle in units of Attachment Size (from 1 to 5!) and then just whack away at your head without the need to concern themselves with trifles like uniformity and aesthetic beauty. One might wonder, then, what these people learn at beautician school. Until recently, I assumed that they learned the delicate art of carrying on a boring conversation about the weather while simultaneously operating the clippers, all without slicing the customer’s ear off. Indeed, I’ve heard that the prestigious Sassoon Universities in Milan and Saskatchewan will not issue a Master of Barbarianism degree until the candidate learns to deliver a short monologue in sign language while giving an instructor Haircut #3.

But this weekend I was disabused of my naive assumptions about the general quality of beautician school when I had my hair cut by a typically chatty barber in Berkeley. She had many things to tell me about: her daughter’s recent break up with her boyfriend; the time she moved from Oakland to Albany; and the unjust ticket she received for speeding in some sort of "no speeding" zone, including the intricate and deliberately-paced tale of how she forgot her driver’s license in her pants that morning as she ran out the door. But as she unraveled each of these yarns, this barber stopped the haircut and put the clippers down so that she could make real eye contact with me in the mirror. For long stretches, she was just standing there talking to me. I mean, a drunk orangutan could have given me the same bad haircut in the time it takes to tie your shoes (with a double knot), but it took this lady 45 damn minutes.

Now, I’ve got nothing against friendly people, and I try as hard as the next guy to drum up a little interest in my barbers’ small talk. I come prepared with all kinds of material, like "I hear that" and "you betcha" and "hot enough to fry an egg, that’s for sure." But I felt a bit betrayed the other day. I paid for a bad haircut, not the opportunity to listen to my barber’s problems. Really, she should have paid me for my time, or at least called it even.

Next time I’m going to the orangutan. His stories are bound to be better.