I've previously written about the misadventures of Andrea dorking around with my hair. There was the savagely unpleasant episode with Vaseline and the regrettably disheartening encounter with hair clippers. In spite of these incidents, Andrea came to me one day holding a pair of hair scissors.
Given our past history, I naturally recoiled. She held out the scissors, "Hey, Hon, would you do me a really big favor and trim my hair?" I must not have heard right.
"Do what, now?"
"Could you cut my hair?" I started protesting nine ways to Sunday, but she persisted. "Look. It's a simple, straight cut across the back. I just need to take an inch or so off. Then I'll guide you on the sides." This was a lot of pressure. Screw this up, and I'd be the direct cause of "bad hair days" for the next two months. But it also showed an awful lot of trust on her part, so I had no choice but to cowboy up. I started stretching out my arms and shaking them out, did a few deep knee bends, and took a few clearing breaths. You'd thought I was about to tangle with Ric Flair himself.
"Alright. Gimme those shears." Here's what I didn't realize. Andrea knew me. She knew I was fastidious to a fault and my undiagnosed OCD would have made me exercise every ounce of precision I could muster. If nothing else, it wouldn't be sloppy. She calmly stepped me through combing out a length of her wet hair, gauging an inch, and making the first cut. I then used that as a template for the next section as I slowly worked across the hair cascading down her back.
When I got to the sides, she explained how to partition her hair into discrete sections and secure them with hair clips. Then, releasing each section one by one, I'd make a cut and blend it into the completed back section.
As patient as she was, she paid a price. A stylist could have completed the task in 30 to 40 minutes, but I took well over an hour. I eventually finished, but my relief swiftly turned to trepidation as she checked my work in the mirror. "Well? How'd I do?" Her smile was a source of great satisfaction.
"Wow! You did a really good job!" I quipped that I could now add "hairstylist" to my resume. Be careful of what you wish for. She was out with a friend the next day who took notice of Andrea's fresh coiffure.
"I really like your hair!" Her shock when she found out she was viewing my work quickly gave way to incredulity that Andrea would let me near her flowing tresses with scissors. Incredulity soon transitioned to curiosity. "Umm. Do you think he could cut my hair?"
The episode was repeated with a coworker. I now had several ladies lining up asking for haircuts. Dumbfounded, I just looked at Andrea. "How the bloody hell did this happen?!" As the trend continued, I quipped that I should hang out a shingle and name the shop "Gregorio's" - you know, for that chic European flair. That didn't happen. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere on the road to becoming a hairdresser extraordinaire. But if I ever tire of the IT field, it's good to know I've got a fallback option.
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