Haircut Chronicles: The Final Adventure

For as long as I've been writing on the RPR, one of the characters that has become a fan favorite is Yolanda, the lady who cuts my hair on and off for the past 2 years, and possibly the most intimidating hair stylist that anyone's ever come across. You've heard all of the stories: the times that she cut my hair, the times that I used someone else, and most recently, when I ran into her in Target. She's been the subject of one good story every 6 to 7 weeks and I appreciate her for that.

Unfortunately, Tuesday evening was my last visit to this establishment in Stamford. As you may or may not know, I am moving to New York City at the end of the month, with the Jessica! Going back to junior year of college, this will be the fourth summer in a row that I've had to move. But unlike last year when I had to leave the old apartment in Stamford because the management company decided to sell the units as condos, this time, I'm moving on my own accord, and I'm moving to the Big Apple.

Many people have said to me, you must be nuts -- New York City is so expensive, why would you want to move there? You know what: why wouldn't I want to move there? When you are in your mid-20's and have the opportunity to live in the coolest city in this country, you go for it. Yes, it will be expensive. Yes, my commute to work will be a little longer. Honestly, who cares? I'm biting the ass off the bear on this one. My feeling is that I'll be one of those old guys one day who tells all his friends, kids, and grandkids, "Back in the day, when I lived in Manhattan...." and there'll be a ton of stories that start off that way. Long story short, I'm very much looking forward to it and it could add a whole new dynamic of stories and inspiration for the RPR (assuming I still have time to keep up with this rag!) But I completely digress, and I'll talk more about this later.

I went to get a haircut on Tuesday night and when I arrived, Yolanda and one other woman were still there. They close at 8:30pm on Tuesdays, but I showed up at around 7:40pm, so the timing wasn't an issue. I had an encounter with Disgruntled Australian Receptionist and she crisply told me to "please have a seat". I waited for a good 20 minutes, which is record length for the establishment that usually has me in a chair before I can say 'Hi, how are ya?'. Meanwhile, I had no doubt in my mind that Yolanda would cut my hair. There just wasn't any way that she wouldn't. It would only be fitting -- we'd call it the Stamford Haircut Swan Song --Yolanda and I would finally have our Kill Bill 2 showdown like Bill and Kiddo had, with samurai swords and all. Except maybe she'd have some sort of hair iron and I'd use a pair of scissors as my weapon. In my mind, this would be a bigger battle than Muhammed Ali and Joe Frazier in the Thriller in Manila.

Finally, she appeared from behind the wall, finishing up a female customer. Then she looks at me. It wasn't just a look, it was a solid stare.

"You're next. Let's go." Yes, indeed. I was next. And it's on, bitch.

She leads me over to her chair. "Take a seat." My approach, as always is to kill her with kindness. I give a big smile and ask her how she's doing and how her 4th of July was. She doesn't seem to thrilled and gives me, "Eh, alright. Holiday wasn't that great. Had to work."

"Don't worry, I felt the same way since I had to work some over the holiday as well," I tell her. She doesn't seem impressed. Maybe she'd remind me that she'd have to be on her feet the whole time, and at least I get to sit down. Yeah, but sitting down, staring at a computer screen. Would you rather have your feet go numb or your ass go numb? Pick your poison.

After sitting the chair for about 2 minutes as she got started with the haircut, I had a moment of clarity. I finally realized what made her so intimidating. It's the fact that she is a very low talker. If it was remotely loud in the room, I wouldn't hear a word she was saying. And when she speaks, it's often with minimal excitement, and if there's any emotion in her conversation, it tended to lean toward mild animosity. She never really laughed, rarely cracked a smile. Basically, I could picture her sitting in a room with a group of 45 year old women talking about how they hated their husbands/ex-husbands, and if given the opportunity, they would add a little cyanide to their morning cup of Maxwell House, and would be happy enough walking away with the house, the Ford Explorer and a life insurance settlement.

I always thought that she was pissed when I chose (or was placed with) other stylists. I still think she knew it was me in the Target a couple weeks ago. I feel like she held a grudge the whole time, especially since we go back to the old location in the mall, back when she gave me her card, telling me to set up appointments with her. What the hell do I need appointments for when I don't know which night I'm going to show up? And let's be serious, I'm looking to get in and out as quick as possible. If the 4'10" Mexican lady is free, I'll go with her. If the Pregnant Irish lady is free, she can cut my hair too. Whatever works.

For her, it's not business; it's personal.

She kept on going with the haircut, continually asking in a monotone voice, "Ok, how's this look? You want it shorter?" At this point, I felt like she knew me well enough to figure it out. The whole time, I took the 'speak when spoken to' attitude and just dazed off in the interim. There's certain people that you don't have trouble BS'ing with. Then there are people like Yolanda where you're never quite sure how to initiate the BS'ing because it's unknown when you'll hit a sore subject. Then I'd be in a world of hurt. And this lady already has access to sharp objects and razor blades, so I avoided taking the chance.

By the time it was said and done, and I made sure my sideburns were even, it was time to head out. Less eventful than I had anticipated, but I try to keep it low-key with her. After I paid the Disgruntled Australian Receptionist, I returned to Yolanda with her tip. I thanked her again and told her to take care. Little did she realize that our paths may never cross again.

As I walked out of the building, through the parking lot, and to my car, I felt like I had just rode off into the sunset. I thought to myself, "Man, the RPR readers are going to be really upset by this. No mo' Yo' I could call the story. Then I laughed to myself and realized how cheesy that would be.

There were no samurai fights. She didn't end up beating me up at any point in time, no matter how thick the intimidation factor was. Instead, all I got was a haircut that will last me 6-7 weeks and plenty of stories for this blog. I thank Yolanda for that. She set the bar high for all future haircuts that I will receive.