Not just because I had a coupon.
And it really wasn’t the haircut.
It was more the words that were spoken during the haircut.
Between me.
And the person cutting my hair.
This wasn’t the first time I went to this local chop shop.
In fact, I think it was the third or fourth.
But amazingly, each time, the same lady has cut my hair.
I didn’t plan it that way.
I think it was hazmat.
Or kismet.
Or something like that.
Because there is clearly some strong connection between the two of us.
A connection that grows with every click of the scissors.
For whatever reason, I can still remember the first time she cut my hair.
That was the day she told me that she had spent her entire life living in the sticks.
And it was just recently that she moved to our “big” city.
The second time we talked about music.
A subject we both love.
She was impressed that I knew the name of the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ drummer.
"Chad Smith", the guy who looks exactly like Will Ferrell.
The next time I came in she told me how much she loved Sammy Hagar’s new band.
But she couldn’t think of the name.
“Chickenfoot,” I said.
A band that Smith also plays in.
That brought a giant smile.
But no discount on the haircut.
Now the fact that I was creating a bond between me and my hair stylist.... barber.... whatever.
Well, the fact that we had connected was good and all.
But it certainly didn’t prepare me for today’s haircut.
It all started when she asked me a very simple question.
“What are you doing on July 4th?”
“July 4th?”, I thought.
“That’s nearly two weeks away.”
That’s when I told her that I no longer plan that far ahead.
I think I said “I now live minute-to-minute.”
That answer got her wheels turning.
I told her that through the magic of therapy I now try to live in the moment.
Instead of getting too far ahead of myself.
More wheel turning.
Then I told her that my career, as I once knew it, was over.
That last part sent her wheels right into a tailspin.
“Are you in AA?”, she said.
In a stuttery whisper.
“No,” I replied.
I could see that my response not only confused her.
But it destroyed her thesis.
I informed her that over the last three years my life has been one big roller-coaster ride.
Got a job, don’t got a job.
Got a job, don’t got a job.
I explained that the game called company merger had cost me my career.
And it was really nothing I had done.
That made her start thinking again.
“Somebody did it to you,” she said.
“But I did it to myself.”
She said that she was the one responsible for being where she is today.
More specifically, a love affair with prescription pills and alcohol.
She told me that she’s been battling those demons for many years.
When I asked how long she’s been sober, she said:
“That’s a complicated question.”
Turns out the real answer is five months.
For the pills.
Not sure what the real answer is for the alcohol.
I could tell from our conversation that this is a lady with a good head on her shoulders.
But that good head hasn’t been able to stop some bad decisions.
By this point, the haircut was all done.
In fact I asked her to stop cutting.
“Because at my age, it’s not going to grow back.”
But we continued to talk.
For a while.
This trip to the barber was no longer just a haircut.
It was a therapy session.
Minus the couch.
I’m not sure if I was playing the role of Freud.
Or she was.
But we both walked away with what we really needed.
She got someone to listen.
And I got a great haircut.
