Whenever I get a haircut, I get conflicted when it comes to conversing with my stylist. I'd like to think that I'm fairly proficient in the art of chit chat. But when I sit down in that swivel chair in front of a mirror, I generally prefer to keep my mouth shut. It's not a matter of entitlement, of being serviced, or not being interested in building a relationship with the person who cuts my hair. The reason is that there is something so deliciously self-indulgent in even the simplest of haircuts. In my muteness I am silently savoring every second.
The scalp is a veritable smorgasbord of nerve endings (remember the Tingler head massager?). Short of a professional head massage, there is no other scenario in which someone pays that much attention to your head. Pulling up sections of hair, combing it over your face to trim bangs, ruffling fingers through to make layers fall just so. And don't even get me started on shampooing.
When I was little, my friends and I went through a "hair salon" make believe phase. Essentially, we'd take turns braiding and combing each other's hair - a barrette here, maybe a scrunchie there. I couldn't have known it at the time, but the main appeal was that it felt good. Much like kids innocently playing "doctor," the game sent feel-good signals through us - the unintended pseudo-sexual by-product of a completely non-sexual situation.
The same idea holds true during haircuts - by the end, I'm practically buzzing. Hopefully my stylist (Jesse at Floyds 99 in Venice - he's fantastic) doesn't think I'm simply rude. There is some conversation that takes place - that is, I don't sit in stone silence while he tries to engage me. But sometimes I wonder if I should explain my lack of loquacity. Would it weird him out? I'd like to think I'm not alone in my enjoyment of haircuts. Putting it out there - is it just me? It seems like something so tied to nerve endings would be felt universally.
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