BAR/ber shopTalk

And all at once, you look three feet in front of you to see the reflection of a man staring back at you. DON’T. FREAK. OUT. It’s just your hairstylist. You’re getting highlights, remember? As separate and different as his reflection is from you and yours, he’s closer to it than you might assume. He knows your stories, your secrets, and how you think, but is he so different from you? He’s relatable for a reason. He’s your hairstylist. But, is he being real-latable or is he blow-drying smoke up your skirt? The nods, the uh-huhs, and the constant support and advice you’d been looking to hear– he’s reading your mind– FREAKY. Don’t. Freak. Out. Tip him well. He’s got the skills to be your best friend while you’re in his chair, but he’s got the tools he needs to be your worst enemy if he dares, and who gave these tools to him? You did. You did because you trust him blindly. Today’s hairstylist is yesterday’s bartender. I haven’t shared a secret or told a real story to a bartender probably ever. Maybe I should. At least there’s a drink involved with the latter, or maybe I need to be going to a different kind of salon. Add an “o”. S-A-L-O-O-N. Salo(o)n. Are we on to something here? WHOA. Don’t. Freak. Out.

All that separates a barbershop chair from a bar stool is an arm rest. (I don’t really think that means anything– I just wanted to point it out.)

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