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I’m a guy. I know every word in Caddyshack. I like sports. I like beer. I like steak and potatoes. I actually like the coffee they serve where I get my car’s oil changed. I watch the Top Gear reruns with Jeremy Clarkson. The only movie that makes me cry is the ending to On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (gets me every time). My blue jeans actually fit.
When I go to get a haircut, I want to read the newspaper and hear men talk about football.
My wife and I have a friend who works at one of these new men’s hair salons. Instead of going to the barbershop on the corner, I made the trip across town to the salon. Okay, they had televisions with the game on, but you couldn’t hear it over the classic rock. Instead of pictures of sports figures on the wall, they had some local artist’s paintings of a long-haired hippy guy playing a guitar. An entire wall was filled with different hair products and lotions. The decor looked just like the salon where my wife goes.
For goodness’ sake, not one car magazine or even a picture of a Ferrari on the wall. The whole place was designed to make women comfortable while they wait for their soccer-playing sons or their husbands and get their manicures. Oh, and the coffee from the fancy coffee maker in the reception area cost $.75.
But a haircut is a haircut, even if I can’t point to a picture of Bart Starr from 1960 and say, “I want my hair to look like that.” Not that my bald spot will ever let my hair look like that, but I can dream, can’t I?
Into the chair I went when it was my turn, trying to watch the Louisville-Duke basketball game between the shampooing, the hot towel, and the neck massage. That’s when I noticed on the sign of services offered, “nose waxing, $5.”
I asked my friend as she continued the massage, “Is nose waxing what I think it is?”
“Yes, I take a popsicle stick, put hot wax up your nose and pull the hair out.”
Somewhere in Guantanamo, some prisoner is being told, “It’s time for your nose waxing, Fayeed.” “No, no! I’ll talk! I know where we keep Hillary’s deleted emails!”
I imagine that the salon gives a free nose waxing to any customer who complains about being charged for coffee. After all, what kind of man volunteers to have the hairs pulled out of his nose en masse unless he’s guarding the last copy of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue from ISIS?
Don’t these boys with their ill-fitting pants and the multiple face piercings realize that you can buy a battery-operated nose-hair trimmer? That the process of removing nostril tree trunks is painless as long as the double-A battery works? When all else fails, scissors and a mirror have got to be preferable to paying $5 for medieval torture.
Since my hot towel and back massage were not interrupted by howls of pain from the next salon station, I am going to assume that the hot wax popsicle stick up the nose is not as popular as the herbal tea scalp treatment. But I have to ask, is there a safe word involved?