I couldn’t help feeling like I had just had my hair cut by my favorite aunt.
She was late forties, Hispanic. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of a Pablo Neruda sonnet. She was probably keeping some grey-around the-temples fiftyish Hispanic gentleman somewhere *very* happy — and well-groomed to boot. She probably cut all her family’s hair, sending each freshly-trimmed nephew off with a kiss on the forehead and a pat on the butt.
So this is how I just knew she was married: As she was finishing trimming my sideburns she discreetly moved the razor in toward my ears. Then she asked if she could clip an eyebrow hair or two.
“You must have a husband.” I said. She smiled demurely. She hit every spot that my wife complains about. You see, my wife periodically comes at me with these huge-ass pycho shears at 11:14 at night while we’re laying in bed. Apparently the bedside reading light illuminates my head just so and it drives her crazy. “My wife will thank you.” I said. She smiled. And I smiled. I was spared the psycho shears for a few more weeks.
So I’ll go back regularly. She does my hair like I imagine Heidi would if she had the training and the experience. And I love the opportunity to avoid the national chain hair factories and patronize a locally-owned business in my area. And you gotta love a haircut that inspires you to go read some Pablo Neruda:
Here are the bread — the wine — the table — the house:
a man’s needs, and a woman’s, and a life’s.
Peace whirled through and settled in this place:
the common fire burned, to make this light.
Hail to your two hands, which fly and make
their white creations, the singing and the food:
salve! the wholesomeness of your busy feet;
viva! the ballerina who dances with the broom.
Those rugged rivers of water and of threat,
torturous pavillions of the foam,
incendiary hives and reefs: today
they are this respite, your blood in mine,
this path, starry and blue as the night,
this never-ending simple tenderness.
– Pablo Neruda