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Sunday, April 20, 2003
I got my hair cut yesterday. As I walked into the salon, I was confronted by the same perplexing question that I've been pondering for the last three years:
"Would you like to change into a cutting robe?"
I have no idea what the cutting robe is for. There, I said it. Nothing else in my life more clearly exposes me as a backcountry rube than my difficulties with the cutting robe.
You see, I'm used to the traditional Midwestern men's barber shop. Until I went to college I always got my hair cut at the same corner shop near our house. It didn't even have a name - the sign on the outside just said "BARBER SHOP" in red plastic letters. It was owned by a nice man named Gene. One side of the shop was decorated with Purdue posters, and the other side was decorated with Indiana posters. The discussions were always about college basketball, and the magazines were either about sports or hunting. (As I got older I became aware that if you were an adult and knew the secret password, certain barbers would lend you their copy of Playboy to read. I was never allowed to do this, of course, nor did I ever try, but such things do not go unnoticed when you are a 13-year-old boy.) When I moved to Seattle I sought out similar places in which to get my hair cut. It was all I knew.
So three years ago when I first started going to a semi-classy salon, I was completely unprepared for the now-infamous question.
"Would you like to change into a cutting robe?"
I had no idea how to answer this. I thought she meant the cape that they put around you to keep the hair off of your clothes. It seemed like an odd question. Who would say no to the cape?
"Sure," I said. I naturally figured they'd put it on me when I sat down. To my surprise, the receptionist handed me a folded green robe and ushered me into what appeared to be a posh bathroom, but with a bench.
"Just come on out when you're finished," she said, and left in a cloud of perfume.
Finished? Finished doing what? I stood there, baffled. What on earth was I supposed to do in this little room that I couldn't do out in the lobby? Was I supposed to shower? Was I supposed to oil myself up? Did they want me to be naked under the robe? That seemed unlikely since the robe only reached down to my waist, unless I'd grossly misjudged the nature of this establishment.
I didn't know what else to do, so I put the robe on over my shirt and tied it around me. I tried to cover as much of my clothing as possible, assuming that this would be my only protection from the bits of hair that would soon be falling from my head. I looked silly, with the arms of my white t-shirt sticking awkwardly through the olive green sleeves of the robe. I looked like the Green Lantern on his day off. I shuffled nervously out to the lobby.
My "stylist" showed me to the chair and we spoke briefly about "what we were going to do". She washed my hair and sat me back down. I then watched in horror as she opened the cabinet next to her station and pulled out a black nylon cape.
I blinked rapidly in confusion. What was she doing? A cape and a robe? What in the hell was the robe for? It was now obvious to everyone that I had completely misunderstood its purpose. Was it supposed to help me relax? Maybe I was supposed to be naked. I looked around at all the super-attractive stylists in their fashionable shoes and incredibly tight pants. These people clearly belonged here. They looked like they were born knowing about the cutting robe. I could feel their laughing eyes burrowing into the back of my head. I could feel my face getting hot with embarrassment. The cape felt like a noose around my neck.
As the woman worked away on my hair, I decided that the best course of action was to follow my standard procedure for awkward social situations: pretend like nothing is wrong and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. After twenty-five agonizing minutes, she was finished.
"Does it look OK?" she asked as she turned off the blow dryer.
At least, I assume she asked that. I couldn't tell you for sure, because I was already halfway to the door, struggling out of the evil robe as I went. I tossed the robe and a fistful of money at the astonished receptionist and ducked outside into the cool anonymity of the afternoon. I didn't even bother to get my parking validated; I had to go to Tower Records afterward and pretend to buy something just so I could get out of the parking lot. I didn't care though. I'd made it out alive.
From that day forward, I vowed never again to say yes to the cutting robe, and things became much more relaxed as a result. Now when they ask me, I smile slightly and issue a casual, "No, that's OK." This is accompanied by a nonchalant wave of the hand to indicate that, as a fellow Fashionable Person, I know all about The Robe but just don't want to put her through the trouble. It seems to be working. The receptionists now smile at me as I pay the $42 they charge to cut my 21 hairs, and no one is the wiser. Since that first visit, I've never seen anyone else use the robe.
Until yesterday. As I sat there in the chair, I noticed that a guy walking past me actually had one on. He was wearing it in place of a shirt, his bare belly peeking out from between the green-piped flaps. Is this the prescribed configuration? It's impossible for me to say. Perhaps it is. Perhaps the robe is for people who wear suits or dress shirts and prefer to take them off rather than risk getting bits of hair on their expensive finery. In my position as Backcountry Rube I don't know much about the executive life, but I bet that's the just kind of thing that can nix a big business deal. ("Well, Johnson, you've done outstanding work here. I'll just sign these merger papers, and...wait a minute...what's that on your collar?") This guy looked pretty ridiculous, so if that's how the robe is supposed to look, then I don't feel so bad.
Some day maybe I'll go back home to the old barber shop and tell Gene my story. We'll share a hearty laugh at the pompous affectations of city folk and talk about basketball, and I'll once again be back where I belong. Until then, I will have to continue to cover up my ignorance of the mysterious secrets of the salon. Please don't tell anyone.
"Would you like to change into a cutting robe?"
I have no idea what the cutting robe is for. There, I said it. Nothing else in my life more clearly exposes me as a backcountry rube than my difficulties with the cutting robe.
You see, I'm used to the traditional Midwestern men's barber shop. Until I went to college I always got my hair cut at the same corner shop near our house. It didn't even have a name - the sign on the outside just said "BARBER SHOP" in red plastic letters. It was owned by a nice man named Gene. One side of the shop was decorated with Purdue posters, and the other side was decorated with Indiana posters. The discussions were always about college basketball, and the magazines were either about sports or hunting. (As I got older I became aware that if you were an adult and knew the secret password, certain barbers would lend you their copy of Playboy to read. I was never allowed to do this, of course, nor did I ever try, but such things do not go unnoticed when you are a 13-year-old boy.) When I moved to Seattle I sought out similar places in which to get my hair cut. It was all I knew.
So three years ago when I first started going to a semi-classy salon, I was completely unprepared for the now-infamous question.
"Would you like to change into a cutting robe?"
I had no idea how to answer this. I thought she meant the cape that they put around you to keep the hair off of your clothes. It seemed like an odd question. Who would say no to the cape?
"Sure," I said. I naturally figured they'd put it on me when I sat down. To my surprise, the receptionist handed me a folded green robe and ushered me into what appeared to be a posh bathroom, but with a bench.
"Just come on out when you're finished," she said, and left in a cloud of perfume.
Finished? Finished doing what? I stood there, baffled. What on earth was I supposed to do in this little room that I couldn't do out in the lobby? Was I supposed to shower? Was I supposed to oil myself up? Did they want me to be naked under the robe? That seemed unlikely since the robe only reached down to my waist, unless I'd grossly misjudged the nature of this establishment.
I didn't know what else to do, so I put the robe on over my shirt and tied it around me. I tried to cover as much of my clothing as possible, assuming that this would be my only protection from the bits of hair that would soon be falling from my head. I looked silly, with the arms of my white t-shirt sticking awkwardly through the olive green sleeves of the robe. I looked like the Green Lantern on his day off. I shuffled nervously out to the lobby.
My "stylist" showed me to the chair and we spoke briefly about "what we were going to do". She washed my hair and sat me back down. I then watched in horror as she opened the cabinet next to her station and pulled out a black nylon cape.
I blinked rapidly in confusion. What was she doing? A cape and a robe? What in the hell was the robe for? It was now obvious to everyone that I had completely misunderstood its purpose. Was it supposed to help me relax? Maybe I was supposed to be naked. I looked around at all the super-attractive stylists in their fashionable shoes and incredibly tight pants. These people clearly belonged here. They looked like they were born knowing about the cutting robe. I could feel their laughing eyes burrowing into the back of my head. I could feel my face getting hot with embarrassment. The cape felt like a noose around my neck.
As the woman worked away on my hair, I decided that the best course of action was to follow my standard procedure for awkward social situations: pretend like nothing is wrong and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. After twenty-five agonizing minutes, she was finished.
"Does it look OK?" she asked as she turned off the blow dryer.
At least, I assume she asked that. I couldn't tell you for sure, because I was already halfway to the door, struggling out of the evil robe as I went. I tossed the robe and a fistful of money at the astonished receptionist and ducked outside into the cool anonymity of the afternoon. I didn't even bother to get my parking validated; I had to go to Tower Records afterward and pretend to buy something just so I could get out of the parking lot. I didn't care though. I'd made it out alive.
From that day forward, I vowed never again to say yes to the cutting robe, and things became much more relaxed as a result. Now when they ask me, I smile slightly and issue a casual, "No, that's OK." This is accompanied by a nonchalant wave of the hand to indicate that, as a fellow Fashionable Person, I know all about The Robe but just don't want to put her through the trouble. It seems to be working. The receptionists now smile at me as I pay the $42 they charge to cut my 21 hairs, and no one is the wiser. Since that first visit, I've never seen anyone else use the robe.
Until yesterday. As I sat there in the chair, I noticed that a guy walking past me actually had one on. He was wearing it in place of a shirt, his bare belly peeking out from between the green-piped flaps. Is this the prescribed configuration? It's impossible for me to say. Perhaps it is. Perhaps the robe is for people who wear suits or dress shirts and prefer to take them off rather than risk getting bits of hair on their expensive finery. In my position as Backcountry Rube I don't know much about the executive life, but I bet that's the just kind of thing that can nix a big business deal. ("Well, Johnson, you've done outstanding work here. I'll just sign these merger papers, and...wait a minute...what's that on your collar?") This guy looked pretty ridiculous, so if that's how the robe is supposed to look, then I don't feel so bad.
Some day maybe I'll go back home to the old barber shop and tell Gene my story. We'll share a hearty laugh at the pompous affectations of city folk and talk about basketball, and I'll once again be back where I belong. Until then, I will have to continue to cover up my ignorance of the mysterious secrets of the salon. Please don't tell anyone.