If only losing my hair is as easy as it was to lose my religion!

"Haircut $9.99. Walk-ins only. No appointments" was the message on a board on the sidewalk as I was driving.

Though I had not planned on it, I turned into that parking lot right away.  In my budget-constrained world, which seems to get smaller with every passing day post-divorce, this was too good an offer to let go.

It is possible that such signs have always been on display.  But, I suppose we are oblivious to all kinds of messages around us, and begin to spot them only when our minds are ready to see them.

Yesterday, I saw the sign.  Hallelujah!

I walked in. There was nobody. Empty chairs. That made me worry--maybe this is a place where one gets only awful haircuts.  Hence, the $9.99?  I know I am no George Clooney, but I didn't want to walk out of that place looking even less presentable than is already the case.

A young woman materialized out of nowhere.

"Sign in please" she said.

Seriously? When there is nobody waiting?  Is she related to Ramamirtham?

I signed my name on the book. And right away she led me to a chair.

"A regular haircut, please.  Not too short but on the shorter side, as long as you even things out" I said as I set my glasses on the table.

Ever since I started balding, the problem is more with the uneven growth than anything else.  Increasingly, it depresses me a tad when I think that the years of spending on haircuts will not be many more. I would rather have some hair and pay for haircuts than not to have hair at all.  But, hey, it is all in the package that life is.

I hoped that she would not try to engage me in a conversation.  But, of course, she did what all people in her profession do--ask questions and make comments.  Why can't they simply leave me alone?  Are the first lessons in beauty school about how to talk, talk, and talk with customers?

The usual questions: about work, the weather, the economy.  America is one small talk country!

I would rather ask questions than answer.  "So, are you a native Oregonian?" I asked her.  Odds are that she was not--a simple majority of Oregonians were born outside the state.

"No, I am from Wyoming."  Bingo!

"So, do you have family in Wyoming?"

"My grandma lives there."

I did quick mental calculations.  If this woman is 25, then grandma is at least 70-plus. Maybe even eighty.

"How old is your grandmother?"

"63" she replied.

I was stumped.  63!  This had to be a case of having kids when young.  I mean, the math doesn't add up.

I didn't even have to ask. She continued, "she had my mother when she was only 20.  And when I was born my mother was only 20."

"So, did you also have a kid at 20?"

"No, I am childless.  And so is my brother."

"You broke the trend!"

I put my glasses back on.  The haircut hadn't made me any uglier than how I looked when I walked in.

We walked over to the register.  I wondered if I have to sign out as well.  Thankfully, all I had to do was pay.  I handed her a twenty.

"I will take ten from this" she said.

"No, take fifteen and give me five."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am. When a dollar won't get even a cup of coffee!"

I could feel the wind caressing the sides of my head where the hair had been trimmed down.  I wondered how it might feel when it is all gone.  I remembered my experiment from a while ago: in order to mentally prepare for that coming bald appearance, I did undergo that kind of a haircut.

After dinner, I pulled up that photograph to remind myself of the day that is not too far away.  If I live that much longer, that is.