Closet Extremist

A date with Ida.

So I went out this evening in search of the elusive haircut. I am the World's Worst when it comes to letting my hair go. I usually joke with the stylist that "I get a haircut once every six month's whether I need it or not", but that statement is nearly true. Lately, it's just gotten to the point where my lack of vanity can no longer keep my miniscule sense of style in check.

Arriving at the salon, I just signed in, and waited for my haircut. I never select a particular stylist, as I'm not there often enough to have picked one, so they just give me the first one that's available. That's when I first laid eyes on her...Ida (Forty-seven years old if she's a day.) in all her horn-rimmed spectacled glory. I knew that she would give me ther perfect trim.

The first time she used her Angelic Voice I knew...that she wasn't from around here. Somewhere in Mexico, or maybe Cuba, but definately a Spanish overtone, and not long off the boat at that. I understood maybe every third word, but I just went with it. The hair rianed down like...well rain, and I began to get a little depressed. Not because of the haircut, but what I observed in the results. I'm Thirty-four years old. Not "Ay-ged" by today's standards at all. The sheer quantities of gray hairs mixed in with the dark ones were, disquieting. The harsh light of the flourescent's above really accentuate the juxtaposition between the hues. At least one in twenty of my hair's are now silver. Dammit!

Luckily, Ida made it all better better with her admonition of "Jew Kum Aye Champu". It took her three ties before I realized that she wanted to shampoo my head-bone. She told me to relax, and to take a "bacashun", and with words of wisdom like that, I could naught but do her bidding.

I got a pretty-good haircut, and a love that will last a lifetime. The next time I go to the salon. I'm putting "Ida" on the request sheet. I think it's only right after all we shared today.