Haircuts and Oxycontin

I must be a glutton for punishment. It's my only reasonable defense for continuing to frequent the same hair cutting joint. By now I should have switched to another place and washed my hands of it.

Today topped any past trip. And trip is the most accurate description I can use. I joke about the twilight zone often and this place is the epicenter of the weird.

The guy that owns the place is top notch. He cuts hair only a couple days a week and those days change without warning. The other chair changed frequently the first few years I went there. But one woman, let's call her Alice, has worked there the last four.

Alice is a piece of work. Fueled by painkillers, nicotine, bitterness, sporting poor health and possessing a voice sure to annoy even the most tolerant patron - Alice is unique.

I don't know if it's the nasal whine, the lousy command of the language, the simultaneously shaking hands and head or her awful haircuts that keep me coming back. All analysis defies logic. Maybe it's the car accident syndrome; I keep going back to see if it's gotten worse. Today did not disappoint.

Surprisingly, it started off on a good note. A warm greeting. Polite questions. Quick start. Then the voice wore me down. Conversation turned to complaining. Whining. The turning point came suddenly, catching me off guard.

Alice handed me a mirror and said, "How's it look?"

I put my glasses on. I thought it looked like crap. It was too long on top and the sides looked ridiculous. So I said, "Can we make the top shorter? I'd like it to be a lot shorter."

Without a word she walked from my left side to my right. I removed my glasses. She placed a hand on my shoulder and her eyes fluttered. She wobbled a bit. I didn't have my glasses on now so I couldn't read her face in the big mirror. Now she stood completely still. I could hear her breathing. It was shallow and quick.

"Alice is going to hit the floor," I thought. But she regained some control and placed a hand on my head. I relaxed thinking that she was going to pull it together. But when Alice's right hand came up with the scissors it trembled badly.

"Crap," I thought. "She's gonna put my eye out."

Alice made four or five more cuts on the right side of my head. She never came around to the left. She slurred, "How's that, hon?"

I hesitated only slightly then nodded, "Perfect."
"Are you sure?"
"Yup. Just right."

Some talcom powder on the neck and awkward smock removal later, I was out of the chair. "That'll be thirteen dollars, hon."

"You should pay me thirteen dollars for what you did to my hair," I thought. But I paid the ransom just to gain my freedom and raced home.

I drove home, cursing myself for going there again. I swore to never again step foot in that building again. Luckily. Melanie was able to clean it up with our home clippers and the junk drawer/cat-dingleberry scissors (thanks, John Heffron).

So in the end it all worked out. My hair looks good and I'll never see Alice again. I can't help but wonder what will become of her. There's that car accident syndrome at work again. Unfortunately I think Alice is destined to crash and burn.