They say the sign of a great barber is the number of people waiting. The shop I walked by that afternoon had a fancy designer sign, *H*A*T*M*O*, and had no empty chairs during the hours when it's usually slow at other shops. I noted the address for later. I'd been dying to get something done with my unruly mess of curls and this looks like the place to do it. The last salon I went to had little ol' blue-haired ladies so I want no part of salons in this town.
At work the next day, I ask a co-worker about that shop.
Jeff answered,
"I love that shop, Gwen. The best haircut I ever had."
My insides go Yes! Sounds like I can trust they'll do a good job.
I scoped it out during the next several weeks, and found that they are very slow, almost empty on Wednesday nights. They were open until 10pm even though most of the time they had no customers. I wanted to get my haircut, but not with an audience.
The following Wednesday, I trot myself down to the shop at about 9pm, well after the evening commute. There's only one customer, but that's okay with me. He'll probably be leaving soon.
I walk in, ringing the bell above the door, and the few eyes there turn to look at me. I look around and notice how old fashioned the place is. I love the old style barber chairs. Their eyes widen in surprise.
"Can I help you, miss? "
the oldest barber there asks, with a great foreign accent, from Italy, maybe.
I can't speak; the words won't come out of my mouth though they are in my head.
"Miss? Are you lost? "
I stammer,
"Um, no. I just wha... want a haircut. "
The two barbers look at each other, and the one in the chair looks at them. The youngest barber, the one working on the customer, whispers to the older one. The older barber says,
"Sure, come sit."
I walk over to the chair and sit down. He puts the cape around me and pumps up the chair to the right height.
