Normally, I’m not very fussy about haircuts, and will just go to wherever the coupon in my pocket tells me to go. But after yesterday, I’m rethinking the whole haircut thing.
I stopped at the local barbershop, which will remain forever unnamed – you will understand why shortly. I put my name on the list and sat down to wait, and five minutes later a strange voice called my name.
“You are Meester Kip, yah?” A tall muscular woman with short-cropped blonde hair and horn-rimmed glasses stood before me. I nodded my head, suddenly afraid.
“I am Lena,” she said. “Today I gif you haircut. You come now, yah?”
Judging the distance to the door, I considered making a run for it, but Lena stood watching me. It was like she could read my mind. “You come now,” she insisted. I was doomed.
I walked over to the chair like it was wired for electricity. A sudden stomachache gripped me as I sat down and Lena began organizing her equipment, laid out neatly out on the counter. “You tell me how you like haircut now, yah?”
As I tried to explain my usual cut, she grew impatient. “You vant half-inch now, yah? I veel gif you number two.”
I nodded my head dumbly, helpless as she snapped on the trimmer guard, flipped the switch, then with man-like strength cupped the top of head and started shaving me with efficient strokes.
While most of my hair cascaded to the floor, she tried to make small talk. “Eet ees nice day out, yah?”
I took a gamble. “Ummm, where are you from, Lena?”
She replied smoothly, “I am from Sweden, yah? Now you tip your head down, Meester Kip, and be still.”
As she ran the trimmer over and over the back of my head, I noticed a small charm bracelet on Lena’s wrist, from which swung a small rectangular medallion. Suddenly I knew: Lena was a Russian spy!
It was the only plausible explanation: the strong hands, the phony name, her distinctively non-Swedish accent, never mind the way she was cutting my hair with efficient, Communist, every-man-the-same styling. It was a dead giveaway.
She must be working for the KGB, and the barbershop gig was her cover story. When she was finished, she tipped my head up so I could look in the mirror. “You like haircut, yah Meester Kip?”
I looked like a Spetznaz Special-Forces soldier. “Ye…yes,” I stuttered. What else could I say?
She led me to the cash register. “You pay twelve American dollars now, yah?”
My hands shaking, I handed her the cash, along with a generous tip. She winked at me, and said with a slight grin, “We see you around, okay Meester Kip? You come back for more haircut soon.”
On the way home, I noticed a black 4-door sedan following me, which quickly sped past as I turned the corner to my street. And last night just before bedtime, the phone rang. It was Lena. “You still like haircut, Meester Kip, yah?”
I assured her everything was just fine and quickly hung up the phone. But as I lay in bed later that night, trying in vain to sleep, I remembered that I had paid her in cash, and my phone number is unlisted. So how did she find me?
Well, I’ve decided: next weekend, I’m going to the beauty supply store at the mall to buy an electric razor and a pair of Japanese shears. I’m done with the barbershop.
I just hope that Lena and the KGB will let me, yah?