Vacation Haircut, Twice. by Merv Wolf

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It was the mid-eighties and, as I had an ex-roommate who now lived in San Francisco, it was one of my biannual trips to check out the design showrooms and the pleasures of the city.
That day, actually part of the ritual, I had gone to a salon and gotten the whole treatment. My long, freshly cut, hair flowed down to my neck and brushed my eyebrows. A glorious, sun-kissed brown, enhanced at the salon with trendy, gold-frosted tips. A very expensive process that I only indulged in when on vacation.
The rest of the day was devoted to shopping, a terrific dinner out, and then a trip to the bars.
Somehow, we ended up South of Market where leather boys dominated the scene. Instead of designer clothes from Wilkes Bashford and I Magnin, black leather and wife-beater t-shirts were standard attire, with engineer boots the usual footwear, instead of Gucci loafers.
And short hair dominated, too. It looked like everyone was a marine or an inductee. I was completely out of place, and completely fascinated by the haircuts all around me. Dancing left me with my carefully styled coif stringy with sweat and falling in my eyes.
Now pretty well soused, I staggered to a nearby bathhouse and checked myself in for some late night fun.
Mid-morning found me back at my host's home, an anonymous, and very buzzed boy in tow. A bit later I awoke to find my buddy gone and with a very strong urge, totally irrational but a real compulsion, to cut my hair. Off.
I rummaged through the guest bathroom hoping to find something to take care of my long locks. I was hoping for a barber kit like the one that I had grown up with, that had been in my bathroom towel cabinet. Clippers like the ones I had used senior year to buzz off my tidy Ivy league. Much shorter hair then, than my hair was currently. Since my host wasn't at home, I checked out the cabinets in his bathroom, but my luck was not running well.
I went back into the guest bath. The only think there was a pair of old fingernail scissors. I WAS really loaded, though, and was determined to cut my long hair. It was way too long. Maybe a good 6 inches or more, and I wanted it gone. I proceeded to take those nail scissors and chop my hair off, strand by strand, as close to the scalp as I could cut it. Hair was everywhere.
Just to set the record straight, this account it true, if truncated.
When I woke up in morning it was to a very unhappy host. He pulled out the vacuum cleaner and suggested I clean up after myself. The first floor of the house was carpeted in industrial carpeting and it was very hard to get the hair out of it. I was really mortified and the fact that he didn't question my changed appearance made it even worse. I could see in the mirror my hair was an uneven mess and knew, even with a terrible hangover, that I had to do something about it.
For years I had walked by, and surreptitiously peered into the windows of a small barber shop on Market Street called Male Image.
They seemed to keep porno as the reading material by the three waiting area chairs and flew a big rainbow flag on the wall behind the two barbers' chairs. There was a wall poster of short haircuts on the wall. I had always fantasized about getting my hair cut there, but had never had the guts to do it. I decided, in a spirit contemplating a deserved punishment for my actions, that today was the day. I took a cab to the shop and drug my sorry ass through the door.
As promised, there was a barber there waiting for me, incidentally young and muscular and with a very short high and tight. A very appropriate and lucky circumstance if I had been better able to enjoy his services.
I mumbled something about needing to have it "fixed". He said he would "take care of me". I was quickly caped up and the clippers made fast work of what little hair was left on my head. I didn't even want to look in the mirror and see what I now looked like.
Looking back, I wish I had had the presence of mind to tell him to lather-shave my head which I had secretly desired for many years.
On my return home to Seattle, I got a lot of remarks from my roommates about my lack of hair. From that day forward until I cut my hair off about 12 years ago, I kept my hair long. Unfortunately, there are no pictures of me from that haircut, only several months later when it had grown out to a styleable length.

Just for the record, this story is true. I've attempted to keep it "clean". If any sensibilities are offended...?

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