Hack job. Got a haircut.

It was a walk-in appointment at Costcutters at the mall. I don’t know, the last time I established a relationship with a hairdresser it was with my then-aunt, who, as it turns out, isn’t mentally stable enough to stay on Prozac and threatens to kill herself every once in a while. And I just can’t bear to go to somewhere that calls itself a salon…or somewhere with a bad pun in the title. Normally I try to avoid National chains, but…

The hairdresser is Russian. Or at least sounds Russian and has a last name that ends in -ov for professional reasons. She’s got too much…eyes, a painfully upswept ‘do, a silver velveteen shirt with black diamond outlines printed on it, matching pantyhose, a miniskirt, and about fifty years under her over-moisturized belt.

“I’d don’t know the name of the cut…a bob, I think? Anyway, I want it cut to here.”

“You vant it cut off dat much?”

“Oh, I’ve had it that short before.”

“You von’t cry?”

“Promise.”

So she sprays the hair down and does various hairdresser stuff. This eighteen-year-old wearing red velvet Marilyn Manson pants that lace up the thigh and a very covering smock, with flawless, non-split-end hair down to there walks by.

“She get it cut to here,” my Russian says.

“You’re kidding,” says the neo-goth.

The Russian takes a small hank of my hair from the back, combs it out, snips it off slowly. If slowly you can snip.

“Not kidding,” says the Russian.

“Vot your husband tink of dis?” she asks me later.

“I warned him this morning,” I said.

Ray likes it. I can shake my head and my hair flies around like cocker spaniel ears. Guess where we went (next door) after the haircut?