The Barber of Davisville

This barber was no Figaro!

I should probably hate getting my haircut more than I do. The expense. Time wasted. The stress of wondering whether I'll look like the Kardashian's poodle.

But I love haircuts. Mostly because it's nice to still have hair to cut. Also, I love the tickly feeling of that electric trimmer on my neck. Hey, could you do my whole body with that trimmer? Yup, there too.

Picking the right barber is an enormous decision. It deserves far more consideration than picking your doctor for a heart valve replacement. If the doctor screws up, who will know? It's all buried under your chest plate. Assuming you survived the operation, of course.

A bad haircut screams out to the world – hey, I have head leprosy. The barber is the plastic surgeon for hair. Oh my God, my hair looks like Meg Ryan's face.

A few summer's ago I was desperate for a haircut so I popped into this barber at Bayview and Davisville. It was one of those heat wave summers, which we get about once a decade now. Double Bubble boiling on the pavement and time stands still.

I should have known trouble was ahead. When I set my eyes on the guy who was doing the "barbering", I thought Alice Cooper had quite his musical career and moved to my neighbourhood. I quickly wrote a script in my head for a new movie, "Alice the Barberian".

I told him, "NOT TOO SHORT". I know I have nice biceps, but I'm not going for the Vin Diesel look.

The part of this guy's brain that controlled jabbering was 100 times larger than yours or mine. I think it comprised his entire brain, save for a few neurons to allow for the modest operation of scissors.

Please, put me under general anaesthetic, like my heart surgeon would. Just for the peace and quiet.

The worst part was he completely lacked vocal punctuation. Inane story flowed into inane story without a pause, like a dentist's drill spinning on full for days on end with no rest to remove the build up of spit.

Please, Alice, let me know when you are starting a new idea so I can organize the notes I'm taking. I'm up to the part where you defeated your syphilis with a record short round of antibiotics.

I turned towards the mirror to observe the final product. That dentist's drill is still spinning in my ears.

Excuse me. Did you think I was off to a civil war re-enactment? Or maybe a jousting tournament at Medieval Times?

We live in Toronto, not the forests of New Guinea.

Thanks Figaro. Now I'm sure to win the woman of my dreams.