I'm a little slow today. I just switched to Sanka. So...have a heart?

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

It's like Larry's. But Closed.

Floyd Makes Me Uncomfortable

First of all, I want to say that this entire process seems way harder than it should be. All I wanted to do was paste in a quaint picture of a barbershop. Could I do that? Noooooo. I had to download software, create usernames, learn HTML, and lactate blood. Screw it. I'll figure out how to post pictures some other day.

Anyway --

Unfortunately, I'm beginning to realize just how unfriendly I am. Maybe unfriendly is the wrong word; maybe it's North Eastern... I just hate making smalltalk, and being in situations involving forced conversation. Case in point:

I hate going to the barber. I hate going to the barber, because I have to engage in inane conversation. Always the same conversation:

"What do you do?"
"I'm in law school."
"Ohhh! What type of law do you want to practice?"
"My neice is a lawyer!"
"That's super."
"She sure works a lot!"
"I'm sure she does. I'll be doing that too."
"Lots of lawyers come in here! Students too!"
"I'll bet. This place gives great haircuts, and it's close."
"Yeah, lots o' students!"
"My neice once had a case, and the client went crazy!"
"Yup, that's nuts, but it happens."
"You'll be very successful."
"You work hard? I'll bet you work hard."
"I try."

Oh, was that painful and annoying? We'll know what camp you fall into based on your answer: If you thought, "Shut up, already, cut his hair, and let him get out," you're in my camp. If you thought, "Wow, sure am glad he had someone to talk to while he got his haircut! And isn't it the quaint interaction with the barber that really contributes to a sense off community," then you can go to hell.

It's uncomfortable to hear someone waxing poetic on the virtues of hard work, property value, and today, trees, while that person shaves your neck.

And you know what? Barber's chairs get HOT. Especially while you're draped in a plastic cape, watching clumps of hair rolling down onto your shoes, thinking about whether you're going to get out before the meter maid comes and tickets you, because a simple haircut has now taken 40-minutes, and the barber drones on, and on, and on, about dead people whose hair he's cut and pauses to look you in the eye, and gesture with a comb and a pair of thinning scissors, ONCE AGAIN about the virtues of hard work, and all the while, you're noticing that your back is sweating, and your legs are starting to sweat, and all you want is to get out of that chair, but you can't because now the barber is powdering your neck, brushing back and forth like he's unearthing ancient Syrian pottery from some sand-covered archaeological site, and FINALLY, you're done with your haircut, and you spring out of your chair, thrust the money into the barber's hands while trying not to look too much like you're getting the hell out of the barbershop, and run outside to the safety, anonymity, and CONVERSATION-LESS street. And you have never wanted a shower more in your life.

I don't necessarily think I'm being unfriendly; I just don't like being a captive audience to a generational-gap affected conversation with a well-meaning stranger.