Hairmageddon

There are times that discretion really is the better part of valor.

Like most of us widdour own hair, it occasionally calls for an adjustment of length. I never was one for the Woodstock look, nor have I been terribly fond of the "fresh into boot camp" look that my father required of us our first few years. So I'll hang onto that I have, even as it's long gone from it's original brown, to a color that gives me an excuse for 'blonde moments', so to speak.

I used to have a favorite barber. She handled my ear lowerings with a familiarity that kept me comfortable and 'bad hair day free' for 18 years. But then she up and done the dangdest thing, and retired.

Obviously she didn't invest her retirement with Bernie Madoff, since she ain't back in the bidness.

So I hadda find me another barber. Luckily, I did: a cute, perky South Carolinian, who liked to change her own hair color every time I went in to adjust the length of mine. But at least in her hands, the scissors weren't akin to what the government's notions of "transparency" are these days. I was content anew.

But then she up and done the dangdest thing, and moved to Oregon. Maybe it was the jokes I told; I don't think it was the tips I left.

So for the past four years, my haircuts have been hit and miss, and I rarely get the same cutter twice at the emporium I use, out of geographical convenience. 99% of the time, I don't come out and hiss at my reflection in the window, not recognizing what's left of my hair.

But there are times...

One visit in the fall of '09, I went in to find a new, unrecognized, very cute and young lady sitting in the first open stall, staring dreamily at me as I walked up to the register. That she was blonde, and text book at that, became evident at once:

"Are you here for a haircut?" she giggled, with a *bat* of her baby blues.

"No, I'm interested in your $7.99 lobotomy special", was my dead-pan reply, with a couple of *nods* of the eyebrow.

That drew another *giggle*, some quick data entry, and then Cutesy calls over her shoulder through a seemingly empty shop, "Beulah, customer!"

And out of the backroom comes..."Beulah".

O-M-G. Near as tall as me. Near as big around as me. Blacker than black hair, with lowlights of orange in it, and cut spikily, like a Trojan horsehair helmet. She had enough face piercings to make a porcupine wince. Black lipstick and Bela Lugosi eye makeup.

O-M-G. I'm in the hands of a Goth. Or extraterrestrial, from the planet O-M-Goth.

With a voice that reminded me of Stripe from Gremlins, I thought I heard "Beulah" say something like "Gizmo, CA-CA!". But I'm suspecting it was more like "heh, my name is Mayhem. Like how would you like your head, heh, like totally rearranged today?" Pretending I didn't hear what I imagined I had, and being a guy -- showing fear was unacceptable -- I took a few seconds to carefully explain my customerly desire to "Beulah-Mayhem": trim it over the ears, off the collar, and thin a bit off the top. I kept it simple.

Her primal grunt of acknowledgment wasn't much comfort, especially as the air from the grunt whistled, out of tune, through her various piercings.

"Heh..*snort*..uh, you don't mind if I use clippers, do you?", as she wielded a pair of electric shears with what appeared to be hedge-trimming implements on them.

"Uh, well.."I started to mutter..

"Good...I have you, like, so totally done in no time, dude!"

Momma.

With the first *tug* on the rope to start the chainsaw-sounding clippers, I knew I should have opted for the latter half of my favorite saying, discretion is the better part of valor, and chickensh** is the better part of discretion, breaking away in a dead run and warning all in my path that Hairmageddon was right behind me. But male machismo caused me a second of hesitation, and in that second, (nearly) all was lost.

Caught in a sudden 'storm' of flying particles -- all of which I hoped and dreaded were hair, no body parts -- I thought an octopus weed whacker was flailing my scalp from at least eight different directions. I wondered how I'd hear, with what might be left of my ears, down around my abdomen.

In two of the longest minutes of my hair's life, the fury of the storm broke, and passed.

As the cloud of debris settled, I heard her say "oh, buzzcut, dude...whaddaya think?". Grasping with reluctance, the mirror thrust into my mitt, I gazed into, not a mirror, but a portal of Time itself: crap...I had one of those 7 year old hair cuts! None of the rest of me looked that age.

Which was good, since I hadda drive home.

Rather than offer an honest critique of the unanticipated results -- she was, after all, still lurking there, blackish-orange hair, red eyes, black lips, piercings hissing like a leaky tire, and with that chainsaw-weed whacker thing poised menacingly over my right shoulder -- I muttered something to the affect that "this'll do until the next Winter Olympics", paid, and escaped with what was left of my scared-white hair.

It took a while to grow out, but by New Years' Eve, the scars from surgically reattaching my ears in the right place were practically gone. And my hair, once again, resembled the rest of my chronology.

In two visits since, I haven't seen "Beulah-Mayhem". And that's okay. We should face Hairmageddon but once a lifetime.