That One Time(s)? I Got a Haircut and a Bunch of Weird Things Happened

(I don't know why this blog reads like an article... Oh well... That's what happens when you write on planes.)

When I was 11, my stepdad and I both needed our haircut, so we went to Bo Ric's. Usually we were met with a few overweight, mousy haired women from the country outside of Springfield, but that particular evening I got to encounter my first homosexual and a...something else. I can remember my 6th grade self looking at the two people behind the counter and being terrified of both. Obviously sixth grade Tedd thought homosexuals were evil and express-bound for hell (see previous entries regarding emotional baggage and therapy) and then the other…person?… was about 6 feet tall, wearing heels and a power skirt-suit, with “her” (I guess…?) Frankensteinian visage topped off with a coif of spiked platinum blond hair.

I think my stepdad and I both were assessing the homosexual and Frankencutter with the same big question mark hovering over our heads. To be honest, I was hoping for the gay, because I didn’t know what to expect from Frankencutter and I think my stepdad was hoping for the Frankencutter, because he assumed the gay would hit on him.

We both got our wishes, so I was sashayed over to the gay, whilst my stepdad was sat down by Frankencutter. I was obviously rigid and uncomfortable because my gay started cutting my hair and asking me questions like, “What’s your name?” to which I would respond in my high-pitched child whisper voice, “mhjmkteddhmhi.”

“He’s shy!” The gay said meticulously cutting. “This is a shy boy!”

My mother had come with us and tried to keep her eyes on the magazine that she was reading to avoid homosexually-tainted discourse. My stepdad was nervously sitting as Frankencutter clacked around him in her heels and assessed his hair.

I remember leaving the haircut wondering if anyone was going to mention the fact that we had entered (in Springfieldian terms) a freak show. I was actually really shocked when no mention was made of what had happened. Leaning forward from the backseat, I kind of brought it up, “That was…the guy who cut my hair?”

My mother just fiddled with the radio.

“Let’s hear some Oldies,” my stepdad said.

Fastforward 15 years and I’m living in homocentral and wondering if I should go in for one of those super gay haircuts with the sides of my head buzzed and the top partable and floppy. Another part of me was sick of my hair in general and wanted to just get a buzz.

That’s when I was called up to the Haircuttery seat by Daniel.

There is no question about the orientation of any of the men at this Hair Cuttery. Far from the conservative bowels of Springfield, there is no question what private parts a man cutting your hair in Edgewater prefers.

The last time I had been to this same Cuttery, a portly gentleman had cut my hair and asked, “You want your eyebrows waxed?”

“No thanks,” I said.

“Okay. I just didn’t want you leaving here looking like a mess.”

Wait, what?

So Daniel sits me down and throws the plastic bib around me. It happened to be Halloween, so I had dressed up for work. The place I work now is hip and trendy and so I believed that people would dress up and be super-crazy-fun! Sadly, I wore overalls and a flannel shirt, claiming to be a farmer. By 9 o’clock after I had been at work for forty-five minutes, I realized that NO ONE had dressed up. Out of our 200-person company, our “Halloween” picture comprised of six of us wearing lackluster costumes.

I will never participate in anything again.

But I was wearing my flannel and overalls and Daniel was like, “You Farmer Joe? Cute.”

I didn’t know if Farmer Joe was…like something? But I said, “Thanks.”

Then Daniel put his thick hands around my neck and says, “Really cute.” I looked up in the mirror to catch a coy smile. He then got prepped his buzzer and went to work. He’s about a third away around my head when he goes, “So, girlfriend? Wife?”

“Oh, I’m gay,” I said.

“Oh, really? I would have never pegged you.”

“Must be the flannel,” I said.

So Daniel and I start chit chatting and he asks about my family. I tell him I have five brothers and he is duly impressed.

“I once dated a guy with a gay brother.” Then, without being prompted in any way, he answered the question on the tip of all the homo tongues gathered getting haircuts. “He wasn’t cute.”

We all laugh and then the guy cutting hair behind me goes, “I once knew gay triplets! None of them were cute, either.” Another chortle moved around the room and then guy says, “Like triplets. Would you believe they looked alike. Like exactly alike! Hair – same! Smile – same! Same height! Same weight!”

“Now, that’s genetics!” Daniel piped in.

This whole exchange struck me as the weirdest ever. Triplets? Yeah, they look alike… And…. Yes, it’s because of genetics. It would be equivalent to me coming in and being like “Notebook paper! Can you believe it? It’s lined and white!”

“That’s for writing!”

Any number of inanimate objects or items of genetic variance could have been the subject of discourse in that Hair Cuttery.

“Sandwiches! Meat between two slice of bread – do you believe it?!”

“That’s for eating!”

I was trying to fathom how the discussion took the sharp left turn into inanity-ville, while the lady getting her hair dyed chimed in with, “Yeah triplets that look alike – that’s rare!”

Meanwhile, Daniel had lost interest in the call and response and began probing me further.

“How old are you?”, “Where are you from?”, “Are you interested in older, bearded men?” (Ok, that last one was made up, but heavily implied in the tone and aggression of the occurring haircut.)

At this point a group of Trick or Treaters piled into the shop. It was raining and the floor was covered in water. This, of course, led to a bunch of the children collapsing on the floor and skittering around like water bugs.

So the scene was unfolding like this with circular conversation occurring as children fell on the floor like bowling pins and Daniel was probably about to ask me to join him in the alley after the haircut for…something of a blow dry, if you catch my drift.

I was relieved when the tarp was pulled of and I paid. I actually gave Daniel a big tip, because he was nice, and despite his almost police detective-level of questioning, I think he was just having some fun with a guy in a terrible Halloween costume.

As I left the place, I couldn’t help but think it may have been one of the weirdest haircuts I’ve ever had. So much was happening, and so many children were almost injured, it kind of resembled the Children’s Crusade of Hair Cuttery experiences.

At some point in the future I may have enough money to go to some place that serves crushed juniper flowers in orange juice, as patrons enjoy a scalp massage from a stylist/masseur trained in Nepal, but I’ll probably stick with the Hair Cuttery, especially when I have children.

“Kids, we’re going to Hair Cuttery. It was while getting my hair cut that I encountered the Frankencutter and discussed the importance of heavy objects.”

Tedd’s child: “They’re heavy!”

“Very good, son. Now put on these cleats. We don’t want to lose traction on the tile. Remember, the Hair Cuttery builds character.”