Lionel H. was sitting in the barber's chair at the Clip-n-Snip discount hair salon, petulant and brooding, high up on his perch, chair #4 to be exact, monitoring the haircut in progress - his own in fact, a sacred event on his calendar, a mental cleansing similar to yoga or meditation; yet there he was on a lazy Sunday afternoon, holding his head stiffly in place while fiercely admonishing the young stylist with a strangely impulsive laundry list of do's and don'ts; nothing unusual here except that for Lionel haircuts were typically so fluid and serene; he had frequented this humble salon as a means of lessening his anxiety, and felt that nothing was so soothingly beneficial as a properly rendered (i.e. close-cropped) grooming. On this particular day, however, he felt uncharacteristically flustered, frayed, on-edge. He felt like screaming at the top of his lungs and berating the stylist, a young brunette woman with long fingernails and wild, amorphous, curly hair who for many months had been relied upon (trusted implicitly really) to give him that elusive "clean-cut look" - a look that in reality was so simple and banal, hardly worth mentioning, but one that he went on and on about in his mind, and would "unpack" for her in excruciating detail as if describing a DNA molecule, a Bach concerto or the latest panacea for a migraine headache. Eager to vent, he nevertheless held himself in check. Although nothing was out of the ordinary, with the casual pop music droning on in the background, with the Us Magazines and Men's Health periodicals strewn across the waiting area couches, with the lighting near the mirrors dimmed appropriately to accentuate the best skin tones of the pale, pasty customers, something just felt wrong. A cheerful blonde woman wearing a shapely and presumably "in vogue" happy-face t-shirt stood at the register, nodding politely at everyone. In the waiting area, two young boys sat next to an elderly woman. A young man with short hair (seemingly without need of even a trim) was happily immersed in reading the sports page. The temptation to explode was so overwhelming that Lionel could barely keep his hands from shaking underneath the cloak, and the young woman was so placid and compliant, so good-naturedly willing to endure any complaint or snide remark, that he found himself sending out a barrage of emphatic commands, albeit in fervent, hushed tones: Could you cut a little more on this side? Don't forget the top layers. The back feels a little full. You're not done in back are you? Do you remember what I told you? The stylist on this particular day, indeed remembered, but could not help feeling that Lionel was revising what he wanted every five minutes. You said not too short - I thought? she said perplexed. Yes - not too short, but I need a definitive haircut, a haircut that is noticeable. Can you use a 3-blade with the clippers on this side here? Or maybe a 2. We'll have to see. The young woman suppressed a smile at this point, half-amused and half-mystified, and could not repress a playful gibe about about certain customers needing to "go back on their meds." Unfortunately for her, Lionel instantly latched onto this barb (reading into it far more than was intended) and indignantly replied: Oh, right. Oh right. Like I'm....Like I look the type...Oh, please. - But I just meant ----- She could not get the words out before the barrage of indignation erupted in her general direction: Just for the record: I don't do drugs, okay. I'm not - I'm ....Drugs are for freaks, okay? Yes - I mean it. I'm going there: for freaks, losers, hooligans, hedonists, criminals, wayward types, drifters, people lacking a purpose. And as for medication, the only meds I'm on right now are caffeine and aspirin - two of the best substances known to humankind. Look, I'm sorry if I sound demanding, but I do need this haircut done right. I need a certain look - okay?" After such an awkward exchange the stylist was now flummoxed for a segue. But Lionel provided it. Yes. I know. I know. I'm a little stressed out today. That's why I like getting my haircut. It helps me relax. Better than a spa or whatever it is people go to nowadays. It really is. It works for me. Oh great - said the stylist, happy to be back in (for the moment at least) Lionel's good graces. I didn't mean to imply that you were on drugs. Lionel felt a brief spasm of rationality overtake him: Oh well I'm sure you didn't...but that's a hot button issue for me. Drugs, that is. And don't get me started about those annoying potheads. Next-gen stoners, pot-growers, pot-bakers, pot-gardeners, pot-advocates. Don't even go there. I can't stand them and their wretched gateway addictions, their beloved cannabis plants." Oh - said the stylist innocently, trying once again to diffuse a needlessly tense situation, I thought marijuana was considered more like a medicine nowadays. I mean for some people. You know they use it for nausea and for um....for people who....who use it to.... help their.... um...I can't remember what it's called..." "Their glaucoma,"- said the customer sitting in the next chair. You're right to say that marijuana is viewed more as a medicine these days than a so-called 'gateway drug.' And the convenient thing is that most people don't even need to light up. Somewhat annoyed by this interjection, Lionel glared at this customer - a pert, seemingly agile, grey-haired fellow, obvious "boomer" who it turns out grew his hair out in a long pony-tail for six months out of the year and then sheared everything off (including his scraggly beard) from April-October thereby achieving a total transformation for no apparent reason from looking like an aging hippie mountain-man survivalist to a conservative financial planner in one fell swoop. But Lionel was not one to let such a comment go unchallenged. Before he could offer a devastating logical argument to silence his opponent, his fledgling adversary chimed in again: I hate to break it to you... (laughing)... but you are a little BEHIND THE TIMES on this one... what you just said about lawful cannabis users is just a tad...oh how shall I say...rigid.... (heh, heh, heh). He said it laughing as if to show his good faith. Oh - here we go. Lionel groaned inwardly at yet another defender of the current Zeitgeist. I'll take that as a compliment he said in response. I'd rather be rigid - that is to say - principled - than on drugs. I guess I just belong in some other century than be surrounded by loopy, out-of-touch potheads on their way to crashing and burning. I know it may sound harsh - but I happen to dissent from the majority opinion - on - this -one. I don't trust the majority...The semi-affable hippie/mountain man soon to be cubicle-dweller or shall I say aging boomer coming back down the mountain to the bourgeois camping grounds, was in no mood to hold back: I understand. You have your opinions. It's just that they sound very judgmental. The times have changed, chief; you just have to adjust, you know: go along, get along, live and let live... This was quite enough to push Lionel over the edge....He wanted to enlist the young stylist as an advocate, but feared that this would be a long-shot. What do you think about all this? he blurted out with maximum subdued demeanor. Oh dear - what do I say now? thought the stylist, not wanting to offend any of the surrounding clientele who were now being drawn into the argument. Well - maybe it sounds a little judgmental (she giggled) as in opinionated (she giggled). I suppose everyone is like that to some extent, it's just that most people - Most people keep silent - because they've been cowed into submission, because they know that the thought-police will drag them through the mud with every manner of calumny. Am I right? -"Whoa there... my... my... you - uh - seriously - uh need to - just take a deep breath and REALIZE that times have changed. I'm amazed at how - uh - what's the word - sheltered you are to talk about us cannabis advocates as somehow living on the margins...You've heard of alternative medicine haven't you?- Don't call me naive, sir. I know ALL ABOUT you dope-smokers. It's so interesting not only do you fail to allow me my rights as a dissenter- you don't even have the courtesy to ask whether I myself have ever had a bad experience with drugs. You ever think a-that? Some people have terrible, terrible traumas that all have to do with drug abuse. Do I make myself clear? And because I'm here on a Sunday trying to get a measly haircut so I can relax - you come along and accuse me of being some totalitarian boot-stomper just because I hate dope. - Okay, fine. You can think whatever you want - but your way of expressing yourself is really offensive - because you -" - Because I - Because you sound like such a puritan - what I call a "wound-too-tight." You don't seem to have much empathy, son. Can you conceive that some people may have had a positive experience where you perhaps had a negative one? Can't you wrap your head around that? Can't you accept that as a possibility? - No I cannot. One side of the equation is delusional." - "You know. Your problem really goes beyond this little debate we're having. I wouldn't be surprised if you make a lot of enemies wherever you go." - No doubt I do. Is that something to be ashamed of? - "Yes." By now Lionel was exhausted and practically in tears. - Is it too much to ask, he said looking around, for someone, anyone to agree with me? Can someone just agree with me? Anybody??? Now is the time to speak up... The young stylist knew it was time for an intervention. - Um sir, maybe we should take a break before we finish with your hair...Would you like some complimentary coffee? - Coffee - there's a nice drug for you - said the hippie. - Lionel nodded at her despairingly, feeling suddenly defeated by the world. The only words he could muster were to the effect of: What is your name. I didn't catch your name. I should know your name by now...
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