My Hairdresser is a Lumberjack

After being born and raised in the city and later living in the DC suburbs, the switch to life in small town USA has been interesting. I've had a little bit of an adjustment, but for the most part, I've adapted to rural life pretty well. I still live in a subdivision surrounded by other houses, I just drive past the cornfield to get here.

Today's experience though, was just a little bit too much like a Twilight Zone episode for my city-girl tastes.

My husband finally called in sick to work today. It's a miracle that he took a sick day, but he needed it, and being the supportive wife that I am, as soon as I realized he was going to be home, I picked up the phone and called the hair salon to see if they had an opening. I know you would have done the same if you were me. ;)

"We only have one time slot available," the receptionist said, "2:45pm with Rob."

I wasn't so sure I wanted "Rob" touching my hair unless Rob was short for Roberta, but this was my only opportunity, and "they" say men really make the best hairdressers. So I took it, all the while picturing someone from the cast of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy cutting my hair. I could not have been more wrong!

Rob greeted me warmly. His salt n' pepper hair was pulled back neatly into a pony-tail that extended to the middle of his back. He was very friendly. He listened well and critiqued my previous hair dresser's work. He promised he'd help me out.

As Rob washed my hair, the faint smell of woodsmoke lingered in the air. He chatted for a while, talked about his divorce long ago and subsequent girlfriends. I was pretty quiet. He continued to critique the horrible job my last hairdresser had done and listened to my laments about how she'd cut it crooked and how I'd attempted to even it out myself. He was very sympathetic!

The entire time he was cutting my hair, I could almost hear the sound of spurs hitting the wooden floor. He strutted around me slowly, deliberately pausing between cuts, pulling scissors from the holsters of his jeans, spinning the comb as he would a shotgun. When he pulled out the hairdryer, I actually thought it was a gun he aimed it with such precision.

All the while he chatted off and on. I learned that he's been a hairdresser for 27 years, and loves it. He loves hair. And then he went on to tell me that he also works with his father in the family business. As it turns out, he's a lumberjack. Not the kind of lumberjack who clear cuts unneccesarily, mind you. No, the type who clears out where dense growth is preventing healthy growth. They're very environmentally conscious!

He finished styling my hair and pulled out the mirror with a flourish, as if he were The Rifleman and it was his prize pistol, so that I could admire his work. And the whole time I sat there thinking about how I couldn't wait to get home and blog about him and whether I'd be able to adequately depict this experience through the letters on my keyboard.

My hairdresser is a lumberjack who has watched a few too many westerns in his day. ROFLOL! Not at all what this city girl expected!

Oh, and since I know you'll all be lamenting the lack of pictures, I just have to say, no matter how great a job he might have done on my hair (the verdict is out for a couple of days until I can play with it myself), he was unable to do anything with my face. I just couldn't allow anyone to take a picture of me at the moment, lest I lose my reputation for having great skin. I'm sure you'll understand! ;)