With all that’s going on this week, I don’t know how I had time to get away for a haircut this morning. I think it was just the only day all week that I didn’t have three or four other obligations. I did put off getting my car serviced until next week, but that was high-caliber prioritizing. The car would take at least an hour and a half out of my day. The haircut, if I worked it right, might only take half that time.

And it would be a lot more personally satisfying. I know the car needs its oil changed and all that, and I have missed the suggested date (by two months and five days, so far), but I can’t really tell the difference after they get through with it. After the hair cutter is done, boy howdy do I see a difference. Sometimes good, sometimes not so much, but most definitely different.

Luck was on my side today, because I walked into a salon with no one waiting. The stylist asked the usual questions, and I gave the usual answer. Take as much off as you think I’d like, then a little more. Even if you think you’ve gone too far, the truth is, you probably haven’t. (And please, please, try to get it even. Last time someone left a crop circle on the left side of my head.)

She asked if they used clippers on me in the past, and I said that they did but I couldn’t remember what the numbers were. I know that’s my responsibility, and I always think I’m going to remember. But I never do.

So she experimented. She kept asking my opinion and I kept having to put my glasses back on to check myself out. It seemed to be going well, until she started coming at the top of my head with something that looked like a motorized Darth Vader mask. I think I flinched, because frankly I’ve never had my top chopped off before. They always used scissors in the past.

But, thinks I, what the hey. I was nervous, but game. After all, I haven’t been satisfied with a haircut since about 1985. And when she was finished, for once I didn’t have to ask her to take a little more off. I didn’t ask her to put any of it back on either, for all the good that would have done. Whether she did a good job or not, I walked out of the salon with no regrets.

As always, I won’t know until at least tomorrow whether this is a good haircut or not. It feels right, though, more than usual. I jotted down the clipper numbers she used on the back and sides, and on the top. I have that note here somewhere. I’m sure I won’t lose it before the next time I get my hair cut. Probably. Maybe.