A hair breadth escape

He paused before the hair-styling salon. A hubbub of inviting sounds spilled through the swinging doors — people chattering, giggling, exclaiming, and singing. A lively place indeed. He felt his bristling chin with his palm — he needed a shave — preferably one with a single edged razor dipped in luxuriating warm water that would impart Newtonian laws of gravity to his sandpaperish chin hair. Although he liked shaving himself, he liked it even more when someone else did it for him. Heck, maybe he would go for a haircut and have his locks trimmed — kill two hairy birds with one whetstone.

He opened the door and walked in. The din stopped immediately as if he had stepped onto a tripwire. The sound of a knitting pin falling down was the only sound (cliched and otherwise) that could be heard. He looked around sizing the room and occupants. There were no men inside even though the sign outside had advertised ‘unisex’ in a glorious neon blue. A patron, her hair coiled like a modern Medusa gave him a disgusted look as if he had barged into the ladies changing room. Others raised their recently shaped eyebrows questioningly. Despite the abundance of lipsticks in the room, there were no welcoming smiles. It was clear that this was a sacred place for the women in the room. There was no room for men here.

A stylist rushed at him with her hairdryer whirring. Perhaps she was going to blow him out. He didn’t loiter to find out and left hastily. There would be no haircut today.

Just a close shave.

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