Well, it's official. I have been knighted with sexiness by the local quickie chain where I get my hair cut. Family members and longtime readers know that I favor the impersonal haircut. I'm not a fan of waiting, and I'm even less of a fan of waiting while someone "works" on me. Throughout my adolescence it always seemed that one of my friends was trying to brush or braid my hair during school, and I remember a classmate combing my hair with her fingers while we watched Ken Burns' Civil War documentary in eighth grade Social Studies. And there was lots of banjo music and cherub-faced soldiers and I was just like, "Can you please not touch me right now?" I still feel the same. Tonight at dinner (and here I have to quickly drop in that I made Jew-brownies for Passover, and they made me really proud) when I said that I hate massages, I got looks from the massage-enthusiasts at the table like I had just taken a bag full of bread crumbs and flung them in the brisket.
Point being: I love not having an appointment; I love sitting down in the chair of a person that I've never seen before and will never see again; I love having my hair rinsed with water instead of washed; I love not being asked which way I part my hair; I love getting an inch taken off quickly without questions; and, most of all, I love escaping the "blow out."
This last week I swooped in for a haircut and was the only customer in the place. I almost got passed off to the bleach blond hard-liver slumped in the front chair, but then the short guy with the gold chains and indeterminate European accent decided to do my cut. This was cool with me.
At some point during the trim Will Smith's "Gettin' Jiggy Wit It" came on the speakers and my haircutter started to get jiggy wit it, while telling me he was getting "jiggy wit it." I was like, "As long as you don't pull out the styling products, you can do whatever you want." In the background, the bleach blond started talking with the heavy brunette at the register about meeting guys on Myspace.
When I was finished, I took my bag up to the counter to pay, and all three turned their attention to me. First the blond said, "That's a great bag."
And I said, "Thanks."
And she said, "It's so big and roomy."
And I said, "Yeah."
And then the brunette was agreeing. The gold-chained haircutter turned around from the register, where he'd been swiping my card, and said, "She's a very sexy girl."
And I was like, "Because of my bag?"
And the blond said, "Very sensuous and soft." And she was air-tracing the line of my ass with her hands.
And I was all, "Are we back to talking about the bag?" Because the bag was also deemed very sensuous in its own way, and I wasn't sure how we made the leap.
And the blond was nodding her head, saying, "Very sexy. Very sexy."
And the brunette was saying, "Sexy."
And the man with the gold chains handed me back my credit card and the statement to sign, and told me, "Very sexy. You just are like that."
I signed the statement and was like, "Okay. It's decided. Sexy. Sexy it is." I walked out of the store, having just been handed my sexy certification. And with hair an inch shorter. The thing is, though, now I feel like I have to find another franchise because next time I go in there I'm worried I'm going to get heavy-petted.