I went to get a haircut today, as I was starting to look like a sheepdog. The woman that cut my hair was very nice and very pretty. As she was cutting my hair, I became intensely aware of how intimate the barber/barbee relationship really is.
The barber is not only right in your face, she is on it. How many people do you allow to touch your head, not to mention that she has sharp scissors while doing so. This woman was running her fingers through my hair, pushing my head up and down . . . who the hell does that?
Perhaps the most awkward part is that for at least half of the haircut, the barber’s breasts are right in your face. I–as I’m sure you can tell–am a gentleman, and I do my best to look away, lest the kind lady think that I am some leering pervert. But it’s hard, people. It’s hard (no pun intended).
I don’t think that women truly understand the power that breasts have over us men. There is a small gap of influence–from age 2 to age 11 or so–where breasts have no effect on us. For the rest of our lives, they are the Sun that our world orbits around. They either mean food, or they mean sex. As many a hack comedian will tell you, all men need to survive is food and sex. That’s all we want. to tell the truth, it’s pretty damn accurate.
Of course I like other things. I like writing, I like sports. I like the comforter when it’s fresh from the dryer. I like chinese buffets. But none of these things have such a grip on me as food and sex.
I don’t think that this makes me misogynistic, I certainly have never seen myself as so. It’s just a fact of life, and this is why I avoid getting haircuts.
Also, I have beautiful hair.