hair's to ya, darlin'

Poor Matt. He just can't catch a break. If anything embarrassing happens to him, his fiancee blasts it to the "whole world" (all eight friends of hers who read her blog). Such is life. We must suffer for our art.

Matt was one of those curious individuals who, looks-wise, had his heyday in his teen years. I, myself, looked like some species of dog in my teen years, on my better days. Some species of rather sizable dog. Matt, however, was ... well, quite the cutie. Naturally, I did not know him then, alas. But this is probably a good thing, since I would've been graduating from high school shortly after his 12th birthday. Ewwww.

Legend has it that he resembled some combination of Patrick Dempsey -- in the "Can't Buy Me Love" era -- and John Cusack, he of "Say Anything" fame. One of the components of Matt's relentless cuteness -- judging only from the few photos that survive from the era, and hearsay -- was his fine mop of hair. He cringes when he remembers the time he took peroxide to the bangs, which turned them some form of nasty reddish-yellow. He swears he cannot imagine what he was thinking. I suspect he had the mind-set of many young men: I will live forever. I will never be old, or bald, or suffer any other such hideous deformity.
And that's probably good. Teens shouldn't spend a lot of time obsessing about their mortality, right?

Unfortunately, he was mistaken. In the five-plus years that I have known Matt, his hair has been slowly but surely making its escape from his scalp. Now, I adore the photos of him with a full, curly black head of hair, but I don't really much care what his hair does or doesn't do. I'd be opposed to him dying it bright pink, or sporting a mohawk, and I'm not a huge fan of him shaving his head to the skin, but otherwise -- who cares? After all, Patrick Stewart is my favorite Star Trek captain. Quite a sexy bald man.
Matt, however, cares deeply, and bemoans the death of each follicle. He tries to treat what remains with respect and dignity.

Recently, he has been having his hair cut at a barber shop of sorts in Vienna. We stop there on our way home every so often, and a lady named Bee Bee takes care to give him his customary "Four on top, two on the sides." It looks pretty good. He pays his $12, plus tip, and we inch our merry way back down 66 toward Manassas.

Yesterday, though, we had a hiccup in this routine. We decided on the fly that we would stop at the shop for the cut. Our schedule has been a little more restrictive than usual recently -- this is my fault, with the afore blogged-about workout routine I've been attempting to maintain -- so we take the windows of opportunity that present themselves. Bee Bee, however, did not cooperate with us. Turns out she was on vacation, or some darned thing. I entreated Matt to get a haircut anyway, telling him that stopping by the shop again later in the week would throw off the pre-set rhythms established. He agreed, but warily.

We knew the risks. We took the chance.

We paid the price.

I dearly wish I had a photo to share at this point, but my wedding would probably be called off if I dared to post such a thing, so it's just as well.

As you can tell, the cut went badly. In my mind, a man's haircut -- at least, when you get to Matt's stage of hair loss -- is a fairly basic thing. Heck, even I could do it! (And have.)
I'm in favor of getting cuts at barber shops, though, because they clean up their mess, it's not that expensive, and they should know what they're doing.

Should.

The young woman who sat Matt in the chair in front of her was told, "Four on top; two on the sides." She took her electric razor, and with one sweep down the middle of the top of the head, rendered Matt speechless with horror.
Even the guy across from him, in another chair, said, "Oh, man -- there's no WAY that's a four."

Tension hovered thick in the air for the rest of the ill-fated cut. More like a "two" all over. Not good.

I'm not sure if Matt ultimately was maddest about the botched cut itself, or the fact that the young woman, and the guy who apparently was the manager (?), kept insisting that, according to HER razor, she HAD used a four. Matt kept saying, "But the point of the numbers is that they're consistent! You need to use a consistent measure! That's the point!" They kept pointing to the woman's razor, and gesticulating, and insisting that it had been a four. Matt countered with an analogy about going into a shoe store and asking for a size 10, only to receive a size 5 and being told it was a 10. (Clearly, Matt is a man. Any woman can tell you that you MUST try clothes on. Never shop by size.)

Throughout these charades, Lizzy remained entranced alternately by the M&M vending machine, the Happy dwarf figurine by the cash register, and the tantalizing possibility that she might get a Dum-Dum lollipop, like the little boy who exited the store minutes earlier. I was torn between the inherent fascination of the debate, and horror at what might ensue.

The shop folks actually charged Matt for the cut, which I still can't believe. He held it together, aside from voicing his displeasure, until we reached the car. God bless his shorn little head. He was rather depressed for the rest of the evening.

I told him he would look natty in a hat. He said, "I can't wear a hat to the office!" I said, there are hats that aren't baseball hats! He said, oh, really? Well, then, I'll wear one at the wedding. I said, okay. Do so. Hey! Then you'll be taller than me for sure.

The debate lives on. All I can say is, thank goodness this cut did not occur right before the wedding. Because then I'd be the one flipping my lid, and heaven help the shopkeeper then.