Yesterday I went to Cost Cutter's in Robbinsdale, and the very nice Hispanic lady is there. She's in her late forties, attractive, with a gift for gab, and knows how to cut old fart's hair. You ask her to lower the ears and leave a little on top, it comes out perfectly. She has told me in the past she has a lot of male relatives who were in the Marines, so she is very adept at Flat tops. I told her with my square head, a flat top might be too much. It might scare kids, or turn the villagers against me. To her credit she got the Frankenstein joke.
Yesterday as I'm listening to her parent of teens war stories, before I knew it, she had a comb pressed to my eye brow and she was trimming them. My beautiful crazy eyebrows getting cut down. TIMBER!
OMG!
NOT MY EYEBROWS!!!!
For over a decade I've let my eyebrows grow. They had achieved notable full bushy misdirection. A delightful haphazzardness. My tiny way of letting my grey hair, freak flag fly.
In 1955 Edward Steichen published a book of photography called "The Family of Man". One of the memorable photos was the white eyebrows of an ancient French magistrate. That picture stuck in my head. They were crazy eyebrows, and when my eyebrows started turning gray 45 years later, I started to grow my own set of "crazy eyebrows."
The barber chopped them down. UGH. My horror and disgust was all internal. I did not say anything. Even when she moved to the other brow. Like a true Minnesotan, I took it silently. There was no point to protest. She meant well, and why save one patch, when they first one has already been cut down. Deforested.
This episode reminded me of a recurring service issue over the years.
Perkins restaurant has been the scene of similar assaults on my psyche. I like that they bring the coffee in those brown coffee pots you can self serve the refills. I'd prefer if they'd just let me self serve the first cup. I really like to put one cream from the half-half containers, then the asthetic joy of pouring my own coffee onto the cream. It's magic.
Typically ruined by the waiter or waitress pouring the coffee into the cup before I get a chance. I've made a fuss in the past, leaving everyone feeling awkward, and requiring me to explain myself. Julie will often waive across the booth and assure the waitress/waiter its not their fault I'm odd.
If a server deals with me pouring my own coffee, they're getting a better tip than the usual 20 percent.
There's a practical aspect of the half and half. Perkins often serves the bottom of the pot cups of tar. The presence of half and half tells you if the cup is toxic or fresh. Grey means send it back, light brown keep it around.
I'm still waiting for a server to ask "would you like me to pour your coffee, or would you like to do it yourself." That would be awesome. I'm fairly confident it will never happen. More likely they'll pour the coffee over the back of my hand, and apologize effusvely to me, but thinking, "what kind of dolt puts their hand in the way of pouring coffee."
Through it all, I suffer silently, and look over at my spouse and read her mind.
She's running through all the Curb Your Enthusiams episodes she'll tell you I made her watch.
I gave the Cost Cutter stylist a two dollar tip, and ran to my truck to take this picture of the eyebrow clear cutting devestation.
