Haircut down to size

I hate making smalltalk with my barber. I prefer to spend the time in silence and just watch my hair in the mirror. But if the person cutting my hair does get me into a conversation, I also feel compelled to tip higher. Like they did me a favor by talking to me. Here's a little extra for asking what I do for a living.

And it's not just that I don't like to talk to this stranger with scissors. It's that I don't like the people next to me to listen in. Because then they judge me.

Yesterday, I had an argument with the man who gave me a haircut. A song from the management's mix tape came over the PA system, and the first thing the guy said to me as he put the cape around my neck was "How 'bout that Neil Young?"

It took me a moment to respond, because it was absolutely not Neil Young.

If I said nothing, that would mean that I've accepted his stupid music knowledge but I might get a better haircut. It would also mean that everyone within earshot would know that I'm an idiot too. So I decided to say something. A man's gotta have priorities.

"It's Tom Waits," I winced.

He insisted it was Neil Young. And as he insisted, his cutting got more erratic. He couldn't spit in my food, so he hacked at my head.

"No, no, no," I said. "Neil Young is Sugar Mountain. He's Rockin' in the Free World." I even did a little high-palate impersonation. No one came to my aid. I was alone in this soft-rock battle. Everyone chose to spectate.

Nothing was resolved. And I unfortunately got what I wanted in the first place: a silent haircut. He didn't even offer to show me the back. My sideburns were intentionally cock-eyed. I still tipped him way too much.

Then I got home and discovered it wasn't Tom Waits. It was Lou Reed.