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Hair of Gone Door

I am convinced that there's a finite amount of "hair karma" per day in the world. Only a limited number of good haircuts can occur within a 24 hour period.
Faith and I went for a haircut on the same day. She went to her old hairdresser in Marine Parade and I tried out the really old looking barber shop downstairs for the first time.
It started when he pulled the piece of cloth around my neck – you know, the one used to keep the cut hair from falling all over your clothes. Well, this guy had a sexier version of the cloth. It only covered till mid-thigh, which meant that I had to hold it up the whole time to keep from turning into a Sasquatch. Then he starts cutting my hair before asking me how I'd like it cut. I interrupt his frantic snipping to insert my own idea of how I want to look walking out of his shop. He mumbles and nods, then goes on his own business.
I've been to quite a number of barbers. Almost all of them comb out the hair to straighten it before cutting all the strands evenly. This barber had the fastest snipping speed of any of them, and it seemed that the comb in his other hand was only for show. I guess it was more like trimming a bush than the careful cutting of hair. When he's almost done he takes out a long razor blade – the kind used to slit people's throat. It's rather blunt, but manages to scrape through (only the hair, thankfully) somehow. He doesn't wipe it off, he just keeps it back in its sheath.
Oh did I mention the towel he used on my neck was a pale yellow? And that it was the <strong>same</strong> towel he used on the customer before me? He then combed my hair like Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes fame) when his parents comb it. Pulled sideways across the breadth of the head. Gross. I mess it up just as I step out of the door.
Faith comes home a while later and tells me how her hairdresser fussed endlessly over her hair.
Life is always fair.

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