Some time ago, in another place, my hair limitations started becoming evident.
Woman hair stylist: So, how do you want it this time?
I: Make me look like a movie star.
Woman hair stylist: (After studying me with pensive frown) Hmmm,…Gene Hackman okay?
For the last ten or so years, I’ve been getting my hair cut by a different woman. She’s a trained, experienced hair stylist too . Styling seems too grandiose a term for what is possible with the hair I can now offer to work with, so I simply refer to her as my barberette.
In the earlier part of the new millennium, we did ponder the possibilities together.
She: So, what would you like today?
I: A haircut that makes me the desire of women and the envy of men.
She: So, clean up the sides and a little off the top?
I: You’re the expert.
She: So, how do you want it this time?
I: Make me look like a rock star.
I: (After she finishes): This supposed to be rock star?
She: Phil Collins!
I: Actually, I was thinking of something more like Jon Bonjovi but, yeah, I guess I can see it.
And another time:
I: I gotta say it kinda hurts to see so much inter-spatial hair-gapitis after you finish.
She: What? You’ve still got lots of hair.
I: I only look like I have hair to people who are shorter than I.
My barberette does excellent work, yet, I’ve reached the point where the possibilities are so limited that she no longer asks how I want it “this time.” Apparently, the only remaining solution manifests itself without requiring verbal description - a case of simplicity over style with, sadly, a dearth of substance of the top-hair variety.
Somehow, life still goes on.