Barber Shop

I knew I had a long wait ahead of me in the barber shop. That's why I had my book with me, a cheap-o Book Warehouse special of William Gibson's Pattern Recognition.

An older man is in the middle of his cut when I walk in, with two customers still in queue ahead of me. Based on the meticulousness of the barber, I estimate an hour before I would be walking out of there with my new haircut. I sit down, still debating if I should even bother getting my trim but quickly commit to waiting it out. I didn't wake up early this morning for nothing.

I spend the next fifteen minutes alternating between my book, the blare of CNN on the ceiling-mounted television and regarding the barber's progress with his clients. My barber's a middle-eastern man in his late mid-late 30s and has a rough-hewn, roguish handsomeness which makes him resemble the middle-east version of ex-Bond actor, Timothy Dalton.

CNN begins to test my patience because I'm trying to read my book and realize I've spent 5 minutes on the same page. William Gibson's writing style has come a long way since Neuromancer but his latest book falls into a similar trap of being overly descriptive. The plot is captivating enough, but I'm over 130 pages in and it barely feels like anything of real import has happened yet.

Back to the headline news on CNN. There is something very awful about this network. The barrage of talking heads does little to hide the impression that this is little more than MuchMusic dressed up in pop-commerce-journalism. There's a quick, slick video roundtable on the Lebanon crisis in which they slip in a segment called Blog Voices. From what I could ascertain, this was CNN's attempt to acknowledge that they are up on the going-ons in the "blogosphere" (an insufferable term that has usurped old stinkers like "cyberspace" and "e-commerce") and use blogger content for their own purpose, while at the same time taking this golden opportunity to discredit the information. They are, after all, only bloggers. Quite disingenuous.

Timothy Dalton the barber is speeding through his haircuts much faster than I had expected. He's down to his last job before he gets to lay his scissors into my fuzzy, spikey mess. A couple walks in and take up seats right by the entrance. They look eastern european in origin and the woman, blonde and slim, is quite attractive. Everthing on her body is either brown or tan in colour which matches very nicely to her light-roast tan. I do a few quick sidelong appraisals and decides she wears her summer skirt and flip flops very well. She's got a slim upper body but her legs are thicker and have a bit more definition. Silky smooth. Interesting.

The couple apparently made an appointment with the barber's colleague, who is running a few minutes late. I clue in that the euro guy's English is not up to snuff and he has his lady friend to provide direction on his haircut.

It's finally my turn to take to the cutting chair. I'm extremely scruffy this morning. I didn't bother to shave and threw on a sweater too short overtop a t-shirt that is way too long. I take off my glasses and Dalton ties the smock around my neck. I'm telling him to trim my hair and I can't help but feel like a blind man. My eyesight is terrible now. When I look at my reflection, it appears as if I'm bald, with my hair having receded to places unknown, or at least into the dark, murky blur of the shop's back wall.

The haircut goes pretty well. I always doze off with my eyes open when I have my hair cut. The barber has a way of grasping my head with one hand to position the proper angle that is very dominating but also gentle. I never seem to notice barbers positioning the heads of their customers as much as they do for me. Maybe I'm always daydreaming and letting my head loll into strange positions too soon, forcing them to reset my head again.

CNN is still blaring away. Another blurb about the situation in Lebanon and my barber allows himself a snicker. I don't get it. I start daydreaming about the tapas restaurant I plan to visit on my date tonight. Abigail's Party is a pretty original name for a restaurant. I ponder the last time I asked someone out who wasn't from the internet and my search comes up empty. Maybe it was last summer, when an old friend valiantly tried to set me up with his wannabe model friend. But even that started off as innocent chit chats on MSN Messenger. I give up trying to remember and acknowledge myself one last time for taking my dating efforts back into meatspace.

The barber does an excellent job on my trim, eliminating the garbage around my ears and my neck and retaining the overall shape of things. I pay Mr. Dalton, who graciously thanks me for waiting. Before I go, I grab my novel off the counter and brush off this large grain powder that was lying around.

I know I might be running late for my early lunch appointment with my dad, but I stroll over the two units to peer into the chic little clothing boutique. I saw a drop dead gorgeous woman working here a couple weeks ago. She looked like a younger, less glossy Kelly Hu. Sadly, I didn't see anyone inside.

At this point, there are no more clouds from the somewhat dreary morning. I turn back the way I came and set off to meet my dad and the rest of my weekend.