Normally, I don’t go with my husband when he needs his hair cut. However, he tricked me into thinking we were heading somewhere else and then pulled into the Barber Shop parking area. I didn’t want to go in, but I looked silly just hanging out on the sidewalk.
So I entered the 4 x 8 ft man cave. There was a car bench for me to sit on, so I did and looked around in awe. A soda machine provided beverages, snacks were in plentiful supply. A good size plasma TV was showing some man-movie about a hoochie-mama female gunslinger in tight leather pants that blew things up.
The two hair cutting chairs were occupied and there were three barbers, although one seemed to be only in charge of the straight razor, swooping in to shave when given the head nod. My husband and I waited, and waited, and waited. I swear the policy was to cut one hair at a time. There was so much snipping, and spritzing, and more snipping, and dusting off with the powder puff brush, that hair was saturating the air.
Finally, the gunslinger movie ended and a chair opened up. My husband took off his moto helmet and his mushroomed hair boinged out like in the cartoons. He was WAY overdue for a haircut. The stylist pulled out what must have been a horse comb to attack it.
Meanwhile, the other stylist was channel surfing. He switched to a program that had Sylvester Stalone, Bruce Willis, Chuck Norris, Arnold Swartznegger, Jean-Claude Van Damme, and Jason Statham, shooting up the place. Talk about a MAN MOVIE!
Drawn by the gun-fire, more men started dropping by. None of them looked like they needed a hair cut. Soon there were eight men in that 4 x 8 ft space and me on the car bench. Can you imagine the high testosterone level?
Fortunately, my husband’s hair taming was finished by then and I skedaddled out of the room. That’s two hours of my life that I’ll never get back.
Surviving Mexico 