Hair-raising ordeal

I got my haircut today, which should be a pretty boring event, but it turned into something of an ordeal.

I’ve been rocking this same hairstyle since I was about 10 years old. I figure, if something works, why mess with it? There was one brief period in high school when I flirted with the “part down the middle” look that was popular at the time, but I have since burned every picture of me from that era, and destroyed the negatives. The ’80s were a pretty horrific time.

Many years ago, when I lived in Griffin, Ga., I got my hair cut at an old-fashioned barber shop. There were two men there who cut hair, and I never paid more than $7 for a haircut. They didn’t shampoo it, they didn’t blow-dry it, they didn’t put gel in it, they just cut it. It took about 15 minutes, and they talked about hunting and fishing the whole time. You paid them, gave them a $1 tip, and you were on your way.

One of the guys was named Vern, and you had to be careful with him, cause he didn’t ask how you wanted your hair cut, he just took out the scissors and went to town (“Vern’ll skin you,” my mama used to warn me). They finally let a woman join them, and after my initial trepidation, she turned out to be my favorite, since she cut my hair in about 5 minutes, with no small talk, and she always did a good job, and she called me “Baby” when she was finished. I tipped her $2.

I have to get my hair cut pretty often, because it grows fast. If I go more than a month between haircuts, I look like a Chia pet. I’m not complaining, as I know men my age whose hairlines are retreating like the French army. It may be turning grayer than a Confederate uniform, but it’s yet to show any sign of turning loose.

Anyway, today, I went into a local Fantastic Sam’s, which is always a crapshoot, because they have a turnover rate of about 100 percent per week, and you never know who you’re going to get. I went in, signed my name, and waited my turn.

As I was thumbing through the latest issue of Working Mother magazine (A new plan to shrink belly fat!), my attention turned to the center of the salon. There was a redneck woman there, waiting on her mama, who she had brought to get her hair fixed (when women reach a certain age, they don’t get their hair cut anymore; they get it “fixed”). Then the redneck woman got a call on her cell phone, and the conversation grew quite contentious, and all of us in the barber shop got to hear it.

I didn’t take detailed notes, but it seems the gist of the problem is someone named Rebecca was making demands on the redneck woman’s time, and she didn’t like it. Apparently, Rebecca was trying to arrange some plans that would enable her to catch the latest episode of “Survivor,” and redneck woman was feeling a bit put out.

“I’ll tell you this, Rebecca, I’m getting there at 1:30. You ain’t gonna rush me. You can just miss "Survivor" one time, it won’t kill you.” She was carrying on this conversation at roughly the same decibel level as a Deep Purple concert, and it just went on and on. “Now, I’ll tell you one thing, you ain’t gonna mess up my vacation. I’m on vacation that week.”

As I wondered what sort of job this woman could possibly be on vacation from, her mother (let’s call her Redneck Grandma) chimed in with a few “I know that’s rights”, and I knew I had to leave. I got up and told the poor woman who was about to come call me back for my haircut to take my name off the list, as I could not handle anymore of the trailer park soap opera. She looked at me a little surprised, but I’m sure she understood.

Here’s what we have to do – we need to ostracize and shame public cell-phone talkers the same way we did smokers. Give them little designated areas where they can carry on conversations, but prohibit them everywhere else. Just as smoking laws are designed to protect people from second-hand smoke, we need to protect people from second-hand conversations. It’s a matter of public health, because eventually, somebody is going to get killed by an irritated bystander.

All’s well that ends well. I went to another Fantastic Sam’s, and got a nice haircut, but only after waiting 10 minutes as the guy sitting next to me was immersed in a long business call on his cell-phone, something involved an order of white cheddar cheese

There oughta be a law.