Saturday, December 13, 2008

From The Archives: Haircut (Belgian Style)

The proud follks (or folk, I don't even know if you can say "folk" in that sense) here at Grumbling (I have been debating making it Grumblings but that requires a new blog, and I am not that motivated) are proud to bring you more brackets (). Well sort of. We are in fact proud to bring you old posts, short stories, poems, and newspaper articles that our chief blogger (and only blogger for that matter) wrote some time ago. Each new/old entry will come with a new intro, such as this one, and the old post itself littered with new thoughts by the author, the Underling himself. Attached at right (may actually be above) is a picture of the shaggy Underling while in Belgium desperatly in need of a haircut, a state he finds himself in currently (but sadly in Boston [which is nice] and not Belgium) So here you are, Grumbling Proudly presents, straight From The Archives:


(Anything in this color delineates a new thought)

As many of you know (all three of you [Still true] ) my hair has been cut by the same man since as far back as I can remember and only once have I strayed and that was because Tony was on vacation for two weeks and there was no way I was not going to get a haircut. Well now I'm in Belgium for four months and I have not had a haircut since mid-December and my hair is long.

With that in mind Nikolai and I decided to go in search of a place to get ze hairs cut. Within minutes we had located two candidates, one that looked chic and slightly inviting while the other reminded me of "Coiffures by Anthony" place located next to my dad's office (for those of you who were unable to get it the first time because I figured you could read my mind that means it looked like 80 year olds, and only 80 year olds, frequented the place). We went with the first one.

Never been to a hair salon, so immediately upon entering, it was a completely new experience. Partly because of this and partly because I lack the testicular fortitude, I made Nikolai (I must have thought it was funny to make Nicks name sound Russian or something, aparently I did not realize just yet that I am not funny) go first. His haircut went fairly quickly and looked like what he was shooting for, so in my screwed up brain that meant my haircut was going to go horribly wrong. (Little known fact, Kevin lives by Murphy's Law)

First off I get the hair washing routine which is basically a head massage, I don't even care that I was getting it done by a fellow male it was enjoyable, there I said it (because you know just because you say "there I said it" it makes the previous sentence perfectly all right). I almost fell asleep by the way.

I wish I had a camera for what happened next part because after the hair washing I turned to the mirror and laughed out loud, I looked like a long haired Gob Bluth (character played by Amy Pohler baby's daddy Will Arnett) with the slicked back hair. Nick couldn't help but laugh out loud at me either. Good times.

Next was the moment I had been dreading since the thought of having to go to someone other than Tony had crossed my mind; how to explain what I wanted (still plagues me with every non-Tony haircut). Tony knows me, I just need to nod my head and he cuts my hair the way I like it, its simple and I like it. This was going to be a whole different can of worms. For starters this guy did not have complete mastery of the English language and when I tried to explain what I wanted he looked confused, my heart sank (and on the inside I started to weep).

After I had finally communicated what I wanted as best I could the haircutting began, and the angst continued to ride (come on Kev proofread! He meant rise). As scared as I was the man did cut with confidence, he was quick and decisive and left no room for second guessing, what I didn't understand was his approach. He was just all over the place, the back the front the side the top, all over. He also decided to split my hair right down the middle and work symmetrically mirroring his cuts from side to side. At the time though I didn't quite get this, I thought he was parting my hair in the middle and giving me the Hugh Grant look. Which yes I do have a strange liking for Hugh Grant (not just a little, full blown man-crush is more like) but I could never pull off his hair style. At this point I was beside myself in fear of the final product, cursing myself for not getting a proper haircut just before I left (which would not have mattered because I still would have needed another haircut regardless).

But suddenly everything seemed to be falling into place, the sides and back were the right length, the side burns were perfect, and the front was shaping up to be better than usual. When all was said and done I liked my haircut, it worked, and I was happy.

Something must have happened while I was writing this because I like how I wrap up a story, that I thought was supposed to be riveting, in two sentences. Good job Kev.

But no one can hold a candle to Tony Ciulla.

Sadly since I now reside soley in Boston and hardly ever make it into Gloucester my hair is no longer cut by Mr. Tony Ciulla it is cut by a variety of haircutting hacks throughout the city. If only I was Manny Ramirez and could afford to pay for my Barber to follow me wherever I go.

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