HAIRCUT

When I moved back to the city after decades of living in a rural area, I had to find new providers for some basic services. I needed a new doctor, a new dentist and a new hair stylist. I found the first two through referrals from friends. I discovered the third by patronizing a chain salon right downtown and five minutes away from my house. Fifteen dollars plus tip would certainly get me what I needed.

In the midst of a phone call with my former neighbor, V, I mentioned the salon choice.

“No!” she screeched. “You CANNOT do that. You’ll end up with a sloppy, amateur cut that looks like shit and that you’ll hate. A fifteen dollar haircut, in other words.”

V is an attractive woman in her early forties. We became friends when she bought the house up the street from my previous home and discovered that we shared a disfigured sense of humor and a devoted interest in old-house renovation.

Whenever we appeared in public together, V was openly stared at by many males. Once we ran into a male friend of mine, who assumed that we were engaged in some sort of prurient arrangement, and who pulled me aside for a lecture.

“You shouldn’t be doing this. You’re married to a great person. What’s your deal?”

“I don’t have a ‘deal’” I replied. “She’s my neighbor. We’re just out having lunch.”

“Yeah, right!” He said as he strode away, his head shaking in what I can only assume was envious disgust. He may have even spat. I hope he spat.

V takes a lot of care with her look. She has great clothes, hair, does the makeup bit fully. In contrast, I shower, shave, brush my teeth and I’m done. I mess my hair up a little while it’s still wet. Many of the clothes I wear I’ve owned for at least fifteen years. A shirt that I bought in 2011 is still “new.”

“You’re wrong” I tell V. “I have the easiest haircut imaginable. A person drooling contentedly in a deep Ambien sleep could do it.”

“Ok” she replied. “You’ll get what you get.”

I hadn’t had a haircut in several months. I had gotten a bit shaggy, but mostly my sideburns had gotten unruly. Imagine if an eighties-era Elvis impersonator had fallen on hard times and really let himself go. Like that.

ROYALTY

Early one Sunday morning I headed to the salon. I was the first customer. A young woman led me to her chair. She was in her late teens or early twenties, rather tall with dark hair.

“So, what are we doing with this? “ she asked.

“Oh, just take about two inches off the top and neaten up the back and sides.”

She started clipping, chatting about the weather and various other innocuous subjects. At one point I noticed her certificate from a cosmetology school in a frame on her station. The last name was “______ov.”

“Wow. Your last name is ‘______ov’?” I asked. I don’t miss a thing, kids.

“Yep” she answered.

“Are you Russian royalty?”

She sighed. “Well, sort of, way back, I guess.”

“So, are you related to-”

“V____ ______ov. Yes, he was a great-great-great uncle or whatever.”

MURDER

“Wow, Prince V____ ______ov! You know, he was-”

“One of the killers of Rasputin. Yes, I know. He planned it, too, or helped plan it.”

“Gosh, that’s so cool that you know this. So, did your relatives pass stories down through the generations?”

“No. I Googled him.”

“Oh. So no family legends or anything?”

“Nope. I wanted to see if anybody famous had my last name.”

“Oh. I got it now.”

“Haven’t you ever done that? Google to see if anybody famous shares your name?”

“Well, uh, actually I’m… you see, I used to be a… no, no. I haven’t.”

“Well, you should. You might be surprised.”

“You’re right, I might be. I’ll have to try it.”

At this point a dead silence descends and hangs for several minutes.

“Ok, then. What’re we going to do about these sideburns?”

“Um, what do you think?”

“Gone. Up to mid-ear.”

“Good idea.”

$15.00 plus tip.

NEXT TIME: Logic Pro, y’know…