If I lived where Ray lived, I would go in to get my flow chopped.
But I’d tell him to cut it weird and the come here to pretend like he butchered me so we could have some nice forum drama.
I was in Paris about a year ago and needed a haircut pretty badly. Despite not knowing how to describe what I wanted done to my head in French (let alone English), I chanced it. I went into this hole-in-the-wall barber shop across from the hotel. A quaint Paris barbershop, I thought to myself. The dejected looking barber suddenly appeared very excited to have a customer. I sat down and described best I could and he went to work. His hand was shaking like he seriously had Parkinson’s. I can only guess that is the case. It was bad. He braced his hand against my head as he worked. I didn’t want to insult him so I braced myself. I held my breath for long stretches as the scissors neared my ears and imagined the patchy strips he was carving into my head with the clippers. I was tempted to declare it done or make an excuse to rush off but I stuck with it. It was nearing completion and I relaxed a little. It didn’t look half bad. Then he did what I thought he had the sense not to do and pulled out a straight razor. I accepted my fate as he put the blade to the back of my neck. I thought for a moment that my last words might be “let them eat cake.” But I survived. He smiled and said he could go shorter if I liked. I looked thoughtfully in the mirror, turning my head one way then another, trying to hide my relief, and declared it very well done. He asked again and I assured him it was perfect. Happiest I’ve ever left a haircut. I hope I made his day too.
I wager there’s little Ray could do that would upset me, even if I told him to cut it weird.