My hair was getting out of control. Hawaii was getting closer (literally, because of plate tectonics, and temporally). Still I went back and forth about whether to get a trim, let it ride, or get it all chopped off.
After taking informal surveys the last couple of weeks (again: anyone who knows me understands that I'm driven by public opinion and poll numbers) I decided to get it cut. Short.
Saturday morning I called the salon where I've gone for the last couple of years (Seven) and asked for the stylist who helped me last time. I came to know her through (shocking, I know) Ozzies and she did a good job last time. If I'm going to pay an arm and a leg for a haircut, I'd rather have a friend end up with my arm, at least.
4:30. Saturday afternoon. With my friend. In their new location.
I had not been to the new location, which is on the second floor of Pacific Place downtown. Their previous location seemed reasonably functional, at least, with about 12 haircutting station thingies (a technical term) and a nice reception desk, with a couch and magazines to help one while away the time. There was also three changing booths, where people could put on fancy-ass robes.
I'd been told the new place was an improvement, and I had expected it to be larger. I didn't expect what I experienced, though.
At about 4:20 I rolled into the new Seven location and stopped at the reception desk. Unlike the previous location, which had the desk tucked in the corner, with all of the haircutting station thingies visible, this new reception desk was the first thing I saw. That was fine. I like clarity when it comes to salons.
I was greeted by a woman and I explained I had a 4:30 with my friend (we'll call her "Ellen", because that's her name). She handed me off (not literally) to another woman (who, incidentally, had worked at the other location and had been involved with me about my sexuality some months previously (to her credit, it was at Neighbors)). This second woman brought me around the corner to another woman and then promptly departed (without taking a shot at my affection/affinity for women... maybe she forgot or maybe I've started to exude more testosterone or maybe she just didn't want to mock customers whilst she was on the clock).
This third woman was a nice enough looking lady, but she wasn't Ellen. I was sort of nonplussed, and I apologized, thinking maybe I had been assigned to the wrong Ellen. She shook her head and said she wasn't Ellen, and then offered me a robe.
It clicked that, unlike the previous location where there were just a few booths to change in, there was now a dedicated Robe Distributor and, presumably, a walk-in set of booths to change in. I declined the offer of the robe, though, and was at that point handed off to a FOURTH woman.
This fourth woman brought me around another corner and asked if I wanted something to drink... SOP for Seven, and I was ready for this: I asked for a water. When she returned, she had a mini bottle of water and a piece of chocolate (that I promptly put in my pocket because it had the word "Sexy" on it... why eat chocolate with such brilliantly ridiculous packaging? (Don't even get me started on my Oral Fixation usage lately...))
While I was ready for the beverage question, I was not ready for the assault on the senses that kicked in as I turned the corner and took a seat in the waiting area.
First of all, I was surprised by the size. There were probably 50 haircutting station thingies. (Although the use of mirrors might have just given that impression, it was quite roomy.)
Secondly, there were a lot of people milling about. It was like the Death Star, where it wasn't just Darth Vader and the Stormtroopers: there are support staff and people that look like they belong but don't have readily apparent roles.
Two people stationed directly in front of the waiting area did have obvious roles, and I was a bit stunned at their presence. A DJ was spinning tracks. A barista was waiting to make coffee or espresso or whatever the caffeine addicts are drinking nowadays.
Many of the other employees were women, and many (perhaps even most) were... uh... hot. Not to be a lecherous old man or anything, but there were quite a few attractive women wearing fetching dresses (classy, but fetching). Some were standing, talking, dancing to the music playing (thank you, DJ!)
When Ellen came to get me, we walked the 1.2 miles to her haircutting station thingie, talked haircutting strategy, and then rinsed my hair at the sink in the glorious sink area about 40 feet from her chair.
It was upon the return from the sink to the chair that I did something I can't remember doing. Ever. It's a bit embarrassing and it makes me feel common, so of course I'm gonna blog about it.
We were walking back, with Ellen following me, when it happened.
You've all seen Three's Company. I'm sure that most of the readers of this blog studied it extensively... either in film school or as part of their postgraduate work. Three's Company had a portion of its intro where Jack Tripper is staring at a woman and crashes his bike... and another intro where he's staring at a woman and runs his bumper car into the wall (which is so ironic! His bumper car is uniquely enabled to withstand such a gaffe! It's almost as if he knew it was going to happen.)
So. Yeah. Three's Company.
I'm walking back to the chair. Ellen is behind me. There are lots of attractive women standing around, dressed appropriately but pleasingly.
One walked by and I looked at her and she looked at me and I ... I dunno. I stopped paying attention to anything else. I did not, however, stop walking.
At the last moment, I managed to swerve to avoid a crash into a pillar or whatever was in my way. If it had been Three's Company, I would have bumped into a stylist who would have shaved off half of Don Knotts's hair. And there might have been a tight zoom on his face, which might have looked like this:
The funny thing is that I don't remember what she looked like. Brunette, wearing a black dress. I'm pretty sure of those things, but the details are fuzzy. Maybe it was just the intoxicating effect of the new Seven location... knowing how excessive it all was. Or maybe they put something in my bottled water.
That thought makes me even less likely to eat my Sexy chocolate.
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