'Til The Cows Come Home

When My Baby Smiles At Me, I Go To Rio

Dodging raindrops, I made my way through the Village last night for my first appointment with a new hairstylist. He came highly recommended, and I was due for a change. Nothing too dramatic, but I was tired of the floppy disarray that had grown out of my scalp, and I needed some direction and texture scissored into my head.

"Do whatever the hell you want to it," I told him as I eased into his chair. "I'm in your hands."

We got to making the usual hair stylist small talk. He was adorable and spunky. He asked where I was from, what brought me to New York, how long I had been here, the whole nine yards. Then it was my turn to question him.

"I'm from Brazil, and I've been here nineteen years," he said.

"Ooo, Brazil," I sighed.

"Why with the Ooo, Brazil, hmm?" he asked.

"I just have a fondness for the Brazilian boys," I said. "Call me an adoring fan."

"Mmhmm, you are a smart boy."

He snipped and clipped his way through my hair, all the while making sure to keep one hand on either my neck or my head. Being a huge fan of the scalp massage, and with the sound of thunder and pounding rain filling the otherwise relatively quiet salon, I started to disappear in a trance of relaxation.

A few minutes later, the sound of the electric clippers brought me back from my daze.

"I'm sorry," I started to explain, "but I'm just so relaxed, I completely zoned out."

He just smiled at me and said, "It's the Brazilian hands of my mine. They do the magic."

I bet they do.

Posted by mak at July 15, 2004 3:43 PM