IT'S-A CUT ABOVE

Went to the barbershop the other day and got my quarterly haircut. As always it is a moving experience. Usually, I get Haim the owner. I think Haim, an immigrant from Israel who has a bloodline that is descended directed from Attila the Hun. A haircut under his swift hands and total disregard for human life is an experience one never forgets. Grabbing your head like it is a hairy bowling ball, he tosses it about from side to side, bending your ear as it gets in his way, he slashes with bold strokes, his arms moving at blinding speed. When he is done he takes a mirror and asks you to look at his handy work, I look instead to see if my head is still in place.

Then we have his assistant and fellow barber, Irina, a Hispanic lady who is very good. Her trouble is communications, as she will motion more than speak a word. As I walk up to the barber chair, Irena looks at me questioningly as to what kind of haircut I want. I say one word: “Short” then I take my place. She then gestures toward the electric razor and the scissors, I say either one. She rips out the razor, then like her associate and boss runs the thing across the side of my head.

I suddenly occurred to me that she may think I want to be totally hairless, shave it all off! I grow uneasy as I sit and watch through the mirror. She moves to the other side of my head and slashes once again. I am really worried, but suddenly she slows down, taking her scissor and starting to gently and precisely trimming.

Then just like that, she raises her middle finger! (Is she giving me the finger? And is she giving me the middle finger in English or Spanish???) She continues to cut and I keep my face motionless like I didn’t see anything.

Once again, I get the finger, or at least it looks like it. Then she rubs it and I realize at the moment she wasn’t giving me the finger, her finger was bothering her!

Maybe I go back to Haim and risk my head again.