Common Nonsense: Every day's a bad hair day

Nothing gets you more respect in life than a good head of hair. At least that’s what I like to tell myself.

Maybe you don’t have money, or skills, or smarts, and, sure, you’ve never genuinely impressed another human being, I say to my reflection every morning. But whoa, check out that mop!

Then I shoot myself a wink. And that’s my routine.

Every time I go to the salon, though, I put that one good trait I have at risk. I walk in, and it’s like I’m in Vegas, high on possibility and delusion.

“You’re the professional,” I say to the stylist when she asks what kind of trim I want. “Do your thing.”

This routine, it’s kind of like betting the house on the ponies — except these are people cutting your hair, not horses. Horses would be ridiculous. How would they even hold the scissors, stupid, with their hoof?

So unrealistic.

My biyearly trim, though,  is the one time I let myself truly let loose. It’s the hyper-conservative, overly neurotic, play-it-safe-forever guy’s version of high-risk gambling.

“Do you have a stylist you’d like to see, or next available?” the hostess asks me. And my adrenaline pumps.

“That filly don yonder looks strong-legged,” I say, pointing to an elderly Hispanic lady sweeping up in back. “I’ll put $20 on her, thank ye.”

(Did I mention I go to haircuts in character?)

But this week, I didn’t feel like gambling. I ran my hand through my hair and told the stylist in no uncertain terms: “I don’t know, uh, lil’ shorter?”

Take that, indecision.

And my stylist, Maria, totally got it; she totally got me. Ours was one of those special bonds only possible when one person involved is wearing a backwards cape. We understood each other: She understood that I didn’t feel like small talk, and I understood that she didn’t feel like small talk, and so we spent several glorious minutes together, not making small talk. The dream.

I eyed the jarred combs marinating in the blue liquid then snuck a peak at her cosmetology license pinned to the mirror. Then, as softly as I could, I blew a rogue clipping from my check with the old under bite-style sideways blow.

It was Maria who broke our peace-and-quiet pact first.

“Ehhhh … I don’t know,” she said, sounding disappointed in her work. “Do you want it shorter around the ears? All the same length in back? I’m not sure how it’ll look when it dries. Maybe we just cut it down?"

And that’s when I lost it.

Cut it down?! I imagined saying, covering up my boiling rage with a smile. What is this, 20 Questions? The third-degree? I thought we understood each other: Shorter — that was the plan. Lil’ shorter. And now you want to hack away my mane completely? Never! No way. Not today, sister!

“You’re the professional,” I said, instead, bowing as always to the intoxicating allure of hair-gambling. “Do your thing.”

And she did, just like that, making me a bettin’ man again. Except this time, my pony was taking me for all I was worth.

“Ah, you clean up nice,” she said, as soaking wet hair clippings rain down my cheeks, leaving sloppy tear trails. My glorious mane. My sweet respect. All gone.

It’s true what they say: The house always wins. But that doesn’t kill the thrill, and you have to keep feeding it, going that extra mile, getting more extreme.

So next time, I’m taking your advice. I’m going to the horse-barber. If Mr. Ed can learn to talk, I’m sure one of the horses at the stable can work a buzzer.