Cut and dried

Everything in life is about managing risk. True fact—we do it everyday. Crossing the street. Flying across country. Eating sushi. Driving at rush hour. It's all a calculated roll of the dice on something not going wrong.

Up until last Saturday, I would've thought haircuts don't really qualify for that category. Come to find out I was wrong.

I usually get my haircut with Gene. He's awesome. He cuts with precision, always mindful of what I'm going for. What I'm usually going for is a cut that makes me look 40 lbs. thinner and more like George Clooney. Keep hope alive.

The point is, I have a great stylist I trust and love. The problem is, a lot of other people love him too. He's booked weeks and even months in advance with his regular customers. And even though I'm one of them, I'm not someone who can schedule haircuts every four or six weeks. It doesn't work like that for me. One day my silver locks will be looking fabulous, then suddenly overnight they're as out of control as a Trump rally in a blue state.

And they need to be stopped just as quickly.

Here's the point: I couldn't get in to see Gene Saturday, and my hair wouldn't wait. So I opted for Plan B, and went to another barber shop where I'd never been before. My son recommended them, so I figured, in that naive way of reasoning I have when I want to talk myself into something, he goes there, they have good reviews on Yelp, a really nice shop and do this for a living.

What could possibly go wrong?

App-hair-ently a lot (SWIDT?). Since I didn't have an appointment, I was shuffled off to the stylist who's only been there two months, doesn't have a regular clientele and gets to experiment on all the walk-ins. A fact I didn't realize until after the damage had been done.

I remember years ago when my son was five or six, we had to run to Bristol Farms market to pick up something. It was just before his bedtime, and he didn't want to go because he was in his pajamas, and he thought everyone would stare at him. Never one to miss a teachable moment, I confronted him with this cold, hard truth of life. "No one cares. In fact no one will even notice."

So I dragged him to the store in his pajamas. And no one cared.

I know in the other world, the one that doesn't revolve around me, it's same with my haircut.

Since I had it butchered, excuse me, cut on Saturday, I looked drastically different when I came into the office on Monday than when I'd left Friday. And even though I was extremely self-conscious about it, guess what? No one cared.

A couple people noticed I was much more aerodynamic moving through the halls than I'd been the week before, and mentioned how much they liked the cut. I smiled, said thanks, and retreated to my office to hate it even more.

The good news about my haircut is eventually time makes everything better. It's only a two week mistake at best. Just like my high school girlfriend.

I suppose I should actually be grateful. New customer, no appointment, unknown salon and a relatively new hire working on my hair.

It's only shear luck it didn't come out any worse.