VI: In Which the Ramifications of a Bad Haircut are Explored

The last time I got my hair cut I had it hacked pretty short. As a result, the hair on top of my head started to grow straight up so that it looked like a long crew cut. Later, the cut took on an Elvis Costello-ish aspect, which wasn't too bad. When it finally reached the Eraserhead stage, I figured it was time for another haircut. That was just about a week ago.

On my way to the barber, I decided to have the back and sides cut short but to leave the front longer. I wanted it to hang down in front as it did when I was younger. I guess I was hoping to effect a more youthful look, one in keeping with my new status as man-who-may-someday-soon-be-back-on-the-prowl-for-hotties. I had no precise idea of how I wanted the resulting haircut to look, but figured I could leave that in the hands of the capable professional who was about to cut my hair.

Now, when it comes to matters tonsorial, I am not exactly a spendthrift. On the contrary, to me a haircut is about the same as getting your lawn mowed, with your head in place of the lawn. True, a haircut requires a bit more precision, but then again mowing a lawn requires covering a lot more real estate, so to me that looks like a wash. I figure neither service should cost more than $15, which is why I go to MasterCuts.

I've found a few ladies at the local MasterCuts who do a pretty good job on my hair, but as someone who only goes for a haircut every three months, I've never bothered to learn their schedules. An appointment is out of the question; for me, a haircut is strictly an impulse move, something to be done on the morning I wake up and say, "Dear God, what the hell happened to my head overnight? I need a haircut RIGHT NOW." So it's a crapshoot as to who winds up cutting my hair.

None of my favorites awaited me, alas. The sole stylist available that morning was a young girl I'd never seen before; she was hard at work on an old man's head when I arrived. Despite the man's dearth of hair, she informed me she'd be working on him for another 30 minutes, which I should have taken as a portent. I did not; I signed in and took a brief stroll around the mall, returning 20 minutes later to enjoy an ancient issue of ESPN: The Magazine--the Giants have no chance against the Patriots in the Super Bowl, in case you were wondering--while she finished working on Mr. Magoo.

When my turn arrived, I sat in the chair and we discussed strategies for assaying my head. Then she applied a number 8 razor to the back and sides, the part of the haircut that is exactly like mowing a lawn. She observed approvingly that I had "a lot of salt and pepper going on" in this cranial region, and I felt old. "Ah well, at least I have hair, ha ha ha ha ha hahahaha" I responded with feigned cheerfulness, and I suspected she was considering whether to inform me just where my hair was starting to thin. Later she noted that my previous haircut had been pretty bad, another portent seeing as I'd thought the last cut was just fine.

Her conversation was not restricted to hair and haircutting. She was quite excited about Barack Obama's candidacy, as am I. She opined that "I really think he'll help the economy, because he's, you know, so positive," and my head started to hurt a little bit. I considered telling her that Obama was my college classmate--which is true, by the way--but I realized how I'd react if I were she and some customer in a Durham barbershop told me he'd gone to college with the man who may be the next president of the United States. "You're totally full of shit," would be my first reaction, followed quickly by "This old fart's hitting on me!" So I kept this information close.

By now she had made her way to the top of my head and was working deliberately, focusing an uncomfortable amount of attention on each hair. I now understood why she had had Magoo and his several dozen hairs in the chair for a half an hour. Eventually, though, she was satisfied enough with her work to ask my opinion. "What do you think?" she asked, a question that always induces panic, as I'm no good at quick judgments. Whether it's a barber asking me whether I like my haircut or a waiter asking me whether I like the wine, I apply the same strategy; I wait long enough to create the illusion of careful consideration, then I smile and say "It's fine!" Except that this was not fine. Even I could tell that.

My next reaction was to do what guys do to bad haircuts: I ran my hands through it, trying to get it to look less like the sculpted monstrosity it was and more like it will look when I am tending it without any assistance. Several thousand cowlicks sprouted. "No no no!" she said while running to the product table. "You need this. It's what guys use. It's [name of hair product that went in one ear and immediately out the other]." She applied two large palmfuls of the gunk to the top of my head, then combed my hair down flat. "How's that?" she asked. I look like Hitler, I thought, but kept it to myself. "It's fine!" I replied, grateful for my lack of a Chaplin moustache.

I paid and left, thinking crazy thoughts. Maybe I can fix this myself, was my first instinct. Maybe it'll look better after a shower and shampoo was my next, more reasonable thought, and I headed straight home. On the way back, I remembered that I'd had plenty of lousy haircuts in the past but that they hadn't bothered me a bit. "It'll grow back," I'd say, then joke that hell, I was married anyway, it didn't really make a difference how I looked any more. One of the great comforts of marriage is knowing there is someone waiting for you who will love you even if your haircut makes your head look like a baboon's ass. And I realized that I didn't have that person waiting for me anymore, and I started to feel a little down.

That feeling was driven home in spades yesterday, when my future ex-wife and I met to sign our separation papers. These are legal papers that document the date on which a couple starts living apart; they also contain agreements on the disposition of kids, property, etc. We'd been meaning to sign them for months but something kept coming up to delay the process, so here we were almost four months into our still undocumented separation, which made it feel vaguely illicit. We hadn't seen each other in over two months, and the meeting was predictably awkward, but we muddled through with civility and as much mutual warmth as we could muster. I was struck by how quickly we had transitioned from married couple to acquaintances. I mean, here we were, two people who'd been together every day for 11 years, and yet it felt as though we barely knew each other. And I realized more profoundly than I previously had that our marriage was truly over.

Fortunately, the haircut has settled down and become unhideous; in fact, it looks pretty good, against all odds, so much so that I felt no compunctions whatsoever about meeting friends for drinks last night, not even when I was informed that there would be 'a lot of cute babes there.' Let them gaze upon my speckled melon, I thought; I am comfortable in my own hair. It was a nice diversion after a tough day, but on the way home I allowed myself to think back on my marriage and the many, many good times we had together, and I cried a little bit. And then I realized that it was the first time I'd cried in a couple of months, and that there had been a period when we were in therapy when I cried at least once a day, and I was glad to be back in touch with my sad feelings but even gladder to realize that they are manifesting themselves less frequently as time marches on, and that this trend is certain to continue, just as my hair will keep growing back, at least until it falls out. Time wounds all heels, Nick Lowe points out, and occasionally it accomplishes the inverse as well.

So there you go.