On Bears, Chimps, and Haircuts

I just got a haircut. I felt like a girlfriend before she goes to one of those all Vietnamese nail salons in California; a language barrier as impenetrable as the Berlin Wall in the mid 70s awaited.
Before I went I contemplated going down to ask one of the front desk personnel if they could write in German on a paper for me: “it’s been a little over two months since my last haircut; cut the top to about three inches and then lightly fade down to the ears. Rounded in back. Don’t mess with the sideburns.”
But they seemed busy so I thought to look for a picture of a man’s haircut like they used to have in Supercuts when I was a kid.
I only had one magazine in my possession: a Men’s Journal I bought in SFO on the journey over here. The material was none to useful: an article on wispy blond-haired Greg Norman (who was in his usual brimmed hat in all but one photo; an article about some skiers traversing the Sawtooths all in beanies or helmets; photos about the Tijuana drug wars did not prove helpful, so I was stuck between some Polo Ralph Lauren ads and the cover of outdoor survival guide and all around awesome dude, Bear Grylls.
I kinda liked the flippy bed head of the underwear model, and Bear’s du was a little shorter than I was used to. But I made a man’s decision and tore off the cover of Bear looking like the ex-British special forces bad ass that he is and set out to ‘besser’ my looks.
I arrived in time for my 18:30 appointment. (I had walked in the salon on my way home from a beer run to the mall earlier and just finding a time to return in the busy salon was a chore in itself.) The cute, young-twenties stylist remembered me, took my jacket, and ushered me to the seat.
I took out the picture of Bear and made a gesture that I wanted my hair to look like his. She understood and put the pic on the dash between the mirror and myself.
The haircut was nothing less than everything.
I rarely get haircuts, and even cut my own hair for the better portion of high school and college, but every time I have someone else groom me I take on the persona of one of my primate cousins getting his pelt cleansed of ticks and dirt by one his kin. I become chimp, or at least Ace Ventura in the scene in the second one where he camouflages himself from the bad guys by partaking in the group chimpanzee grooming session, (right before the rhino scene I think.)
And I’m always sad when the grooming ends. For a good few minutes after the haircut, I retain a sort of euphoria in the bottom part of my head and neck; a relaxed, the-world-is-good feeling spreads over me. I really cannot explain it, but every time I get a haircut I am astonished at how good it makes me feel.
So, thanks to all the Bears and Chimps that got me here. Now I gotta go shave.