A Short Cut…literally

by Darin Lowery

If you’re in your mid-fifties as I am, you may remember the old drug store calendars with the cute pictures: chimpanzees in pedal cars, little girls on the telephone, and my favorite- the shot of a little boy in a barber’s chair, tears streaming down his cheeks as he gets his first trim.

One last grasp- or gasp- at youth was all I asked. To let my hair grow long, the way it was in the late 60’s- wind waving it, spring rains wetting it- would somehow melt the years which separated me from the Summer of Love.

The end result was worth it. After two years, a pelt of thick hair cascaded over my shoulders and down my back. This caused considerable comment, usually from short white middle-aged women wearing outdated turbans.

‘Ohmygawd, you have perfect hair. What a waste it’s on a man!’

Skater dudes gave me thumbs up, and at least twice a week someone wanted to either buy/sell/trade/share marijuana. Or worse.

Sometimes, the police looked at me funny.

Still, I felt like a ROCK STAR.

My sister once said to be careful for what you wished for. She was right. A slight breeze creates tangles worse than gym shoe knots, and any precipitation- or hint of it- plumps up normal hair into 70’s shag carpeting. The whole point was to grow it out in the first place, yet I wore it tied back all the time. Otherwise, it drove me barking insane when it fell across my face.

One morning I sprinted across Broad Street, feeling groovy, and pulled the band from my hair. Immediately blinded, I plowed into a planter box which wasn’t there the week before. Damn those City Beautification People. In fact, damn the Beautiful People- I didn’t want to be one anymore. If I ever was.

I dialed up Monica, the owner of Blondie’s Beauty Parlour, and we agreed on a 1:00 appointment for the next day. I communed with the Hair God the night before, saying thanks for the flashback, but it’s time to roll.

The actual act was anticlimactic. First I had a full head of Boy Band hair, and then I looked like I was ready for the school photographer. My neck got cold and my face looked fuller. Charlize Theron called and asked me out for cocktails.

Driving home was terrific. I had the radio up, the windows down, and for the first time in a few years I could really see where I was going, which I’m sure myfellow drivers appreciated. Strands of hair no longer went up my nose or got caught in my Wrigley’d mouth.

The dogs still recognized me when I came through the door, which was a surprise. Or maybe it was that faint scent of lunch from El Ranchito that got their tails wagging.

It was the right decision, and the irony is the hair that I no longer want will be donated to someone who has no hair (a chemotherapy patient) during the Relay for Life event at Harbison Field.

Blondie’s Beauty Parlour is located at 140 West Oak Street in Globe. Monica Evans is my Salon Mistress of choice. You can reach her at (928) 425-8465.