If there is a word for falling in love with your therapist, what’s the word for falling for your hair stylist?
Because that was exactly what went down today at a salon stuck smack dab in the middle of a very kitschy, very loud, very Israeli mall in Jerusalem.
And by “loud” I mean it’s the chofesh hagadol, as they say here, which is another way of saying, the kids have been let out of school and if you thought it was loud before, you ain’t heard nothing yet.
And by “very Israeli” I mean that you have to use your elbows to maneuver past the strollers and “exuberant” little ones and their just as “exuberant” parents, which is an understatement, if you know what I mean.
Also by “very Israeli” I mean that among the wares being hawked at the various kiosks dotting the mall are Torah scrolls. I kid you not. And those yummy spice mixes you can add to rice. And Kabbalistic renderings of Hebrew names written in pretty calligraphy. So yes, Israeli.
And while I’m summing up Israel on one leg, how about this one: The male stylists are very often not gay. Which is another way of saying, they are straight. And by straight, I mean, straight beyond belief! Which is another way of saying, how often can I get my haircut without turning into the old Sinead O Connor?
First, a very straight, very teenage young man washed my hair, and maybe this makes me a creepy old man, but I could have him wash my hair every day and never get bored. Then I stepped over two other very straight 20-somethings who had sprawled out on chairs, chatting about soccer and watching the news on tv until more customers arrived, to reach the owner’s chair.
And by owner I mean the very straight, 30-something, not at all stylish guy who has been cutting my hair. Let us pause for a second to applaud his outfit, which consisted of a ratty t-shirt clinging to a rather noticeable paunch, a pair of white Bermuda shorts and sneakers with no socks. How cute is he? Which is another way of saying, I could hardly breathe he was so cute. Fortunately, he did not chat with me at all, except to bark orders: Move your head down, look this way.
The whole thing made me wonder: If given the opportunity, would I date a hair stylist? And if the answer is no then why not?
Not that he asked me out. My guess is the guy is married only because it seems that every other Israeli is just that: married with lots of children. And to add insult to injury, the men don’t wear wedding rings.
But the good news is I got myself a really good cut.