Getting a Haircut in Maine

I had let my hair grow out since a little after Christmas, about 5 months. I’m not one to get my hair cut often because I don’t really know who I’m trying to impress. I’d say a typical wait period between cuts is about 3 to 4 months. As soon as it becomes hard to see my ears, that’s typically my cue to do something about my life. This time, I’d say I reached that point right around the time the state of Massachusetts shut down.

I started quarantine with a mop on my head. As the weeks went by, that mop expanded upwards and outward, parting more towards the left side of my face than my right. By the time May rolled around and it was time for me to go to Maine to help my parents, brushing the hair out of my eyes had become at least a part-time job with no benefits. I felt like Professor Snape, but blonde; a strange cross between Justin Bieber as a teenager and Chris Farley in Black Sheep.

I’ve always been self-conscious about my appearance. I think I’m perfectly normal looking, but the kind of normal that, when I’m having an off day, I look and feel 5 times more disgusting than I think I actually am. When the mop on my head is in full swing, it puts on 5-to-10 pounds all over my body. I’ve known this about myself for quite some time, but it usually takes a third party’s perspective for me to make some changes. That came in the form of a photo taken by a friend while playing golf. I looked like John Daly when he won the British Open. It was time to make a change, world uncertainty be damned.

I hit up a Supercuts 5 minutes from my parents’ house. I pulled into the lot wearing my mask, rockin' Massachusetts plates. I park, step out, and approach the door. I’m greeted by a sign that says "by appointment only." I pivot, turn around and get back in my car. I call Supercuts from the parking lot and make an appointment. The stylists working at the front desk saw me the whole time. “Are you parked out front?” she asks. “Yep,” I say, unsure what I’m supposed to do. I’m invited in and make the appointment for 45 minutes later.

I use the downtime to cool off. My hair the way it is makes me sweat profusely whenever it’s above 45 degrees. I drive around in my car, blasting the A/C, hoping that, by the time my appointment rolls around, I’ll be just a little less gross. Time passes fast. Before I know it, I’m pulling back into the lot. I walk in, remembering my mask, and it’s time. Before I can sit down, I have to answer a few security questions like, “Are you a resident of the state of Maine?”

“Ah,” I stammer. “No. But I’ve been here a couple of weeks quarantining.”

I can see the suspicion on the stylist’s face, even with the mask on. I further explain my situation and assure anybody listening that I’ve been following all the rules to the best of my ability and I have no reason to believe I’ve been in contact with a sick person. I tell them I haven’t had any symptoms. It’s painless enough and I’m allowed to take a seat in the chair.

I ask for a 4 in the back and along the sides and a basic blend on top. It’s one of the quickest haircuts I’ve ever had. My mask stays on and there’s very little chit chat between me and the stylists. I help her hold my mask as she shaves above and behind my ears, but that’s about it. I pass the time listening to the customer seated to my right, presumably a Scarborough, Maine, native, discussing how the recent spell of nice weather has inspired people to get out of their homes and enjoy the nature the town has to offer.

I look down at the floor as the stylist unhooks the rob. There’s gotta be 5 pounds of hair at my feet. I already feel myself sweating less. I approach the front desk, pay with a card, and tip 20 percent. I don’t know what the going tip rate is for haircuts, so I treat it like a restaurant. Overall, mostly painless. Common sense and appropriate signage go a long way in times like these. I should do this more than 3 or 4 times a year.