Erik J Skinner

This is the story about why I will never get my hair cut at the Super Cuts in Lone Tree, CO ever again.

It was a typical day of errands for me, my hair had gotten shaggy as it usually does over time and I needed a hair cut. As is standard in most hair cut establishments, I wrote my name on the sign-in sheet and sat down. I spent some time feigning interest in the magazines that closest matched (not at all) my interests, Sports Illustrated. To my right sat a woman and her two hyper-active children. That is, the woman was seated, and her children were running around, jumping off the chairs, and overall showing signs of needing medication, better parenting or a combination of both. Otherwise the waiting area was empty.

After waiting a few minutes, a patron had their hair finished and paid, you know the usual ending to a hair cut visit. The stylist then looked at me and asked “Ready?” I nodded and said, “Sure am.” Let it be noted that this was a rare occasion that I have had my hair cut at a place like this by a man.

I sat myself down in the chair and as he draped the reverse cape around me he asked, “So Ray, how would you like your hair cut today?”

What? I could have sworn I wrote down my name (Erik, not Ray) on the list. Then I realized, he didn’t ask me “Ready?” he asked me “Ray?” But it was too late, as I tried to piece together the situation I instinctively listed my ideal requirements for my hair.

The fact of the matter was I jacked someone’s place in line.

I assumed if one of the hyper-active children was Ray, his mother would have chimed in and objected immediately. Ray must be some other guy who instead of sitting there and waiting went across the parking lot to kill some time picking up a thing or two at Super Target. I was in the clear, or so I thought.

Never before had a stylist talked to me as much as this man did. And never had a stylist refered to me BY NAME (the wrong name) with every statement. Any moment I imagined Ray would walk in, hear the stylist calling me Ray, check the list to see his name in his handwriting crossed off, get pissed and punch me in the nose. But even if the stylist stopped calling me Ray by the time the Real Ray arrived, there was something else…

There were two other stylists that were well on their merry way with their hair cuttees before I took my place on the barbary throne. Any moment one of them could finish and call the next name on the list… Mine. The last name on the list. The stylist would shrug and start towards the back for a coffee break. Ray would then get up and ask, “What about me?” They would investigate the list and punch in the nose.

Needless to say, this soon became the most stressful haircut I have ever endured. I would cringe every time I heard the bells hung on the door handle jangled. Luckily it was only the hyper-active children playing with the bells like a cat. But then a man entered. One of the stylists greeted him, “Go ahead and write your name on the list,” to which he responded, “Oh I’ve already signed in, thanks!” and sat down in the waiting area.

This was Ray. The man I was pretending to be. At this point all I cared about was getting the hell out of there before any of the other folks still getting their hair cut. It didn’t matter how my hair looked when he gave me the mirror to the back of the head check.

The gods were on my side as I was the first one finished. I hopped up and scooted over to the cash register crossing my fingers that the man wouldn’t call me Ray again as he closed my transaction.

Then I realized, my name clearly isn’t Ray on my credit card. The jig is up, a punch in the nose was inevitable. But by some merciful twist of fate, I discovered a crisp 20 dollar bill laying in my wallet. I slapped it down on the counter, “Keep the change,” and shuffled out the door.

I can only imagine the aftermath that ensued in my absence. I decided I would never return to this store for fear of the stylists present that day recognizing the man who pretended to be Ray.