This haircut seemingly wouldn't end

Losing a hair stylist is like losing a mechanic or dentist or insurance agent: It's uncomfortable to go somewhere unfamiliar.

And you can leave a new place looking disheveled.

The shop where I got haircuts for the past 15 years recently closed. For a few weeks, it was going to "reopen soon," then it closed.

I liked the place. I like the women who cut my hair. We shared stories about vacations and work. They knew about my family and asked specifically about my sons. They also knew how to cut my hair, which is not difficult: five on the top, three on the sides. (Some sort of measure for clippers, I guess. The lower the number, the shorter your hair.)

The closing of my hair shop led to a mini-crisis: Where should I get haircuts? (Note: Don't suggest I come to your favorite place. I have a new shop, different from the one discussed below.)

I tried another nearby salon (is that the correct term for a place where they charge $12 for a haircut?). My first experience was bad enough for me to dislike it, but on a recent Saturday, Mrs. Brad was otherwise occupied and I had extra time. It's in my neighborhood. I could get a haircut and not interrupt my regular schedule.

So I went back and signed in. And waited. And waited. And waited. It felt like I was the guy at "Cheers" whose name nobody knew, since many customers were greeted when they arrived while I was ignored. That's OK. I wasn't a regular.

Finally, a young man came in, walked up to me and wordlessly indicated that he could cut my hair.

As mentioned earlier, it doesn't take long to cut my hair. The "five on top, three on the sides" haircut usually takes less than 10 minutes – enough time to talk about vacations, but not much more than that.

We didn't talk, since my barber didn't know me. That's fine. I didn't expect conversation.

He cut my hair. I heard buzzing, per usual. After the requisite 10 minutes, he stopped, then sprayed my hair with water.

And started cutting again. Barely. Occasionally snipping stray hairs with the clippers.

"He's making sure it's clean," I told myself.

He kept clipping. For several minutes. Then he stopped and sprayed.

And started clipping again.

Curious. I thought, "I'll tell people I had an obsessive-compulsive hairdresser. That will be funny."

He combed, then clipped the occasional stray hair.

Combed. Combed. Clipped a single hair. Combed. Clipped.

Stopped. Sprayed.

And started combing. Clipping. Combing. Combing. Clipping.

Spraying.

Combing. Combing. Clipping.

I got anxious. Was I supposed to tell him to stop? Had the rules changed? My potential OCD joke – to be clear, I don't consider obsessive-compulsive disorder funny – seemed factual. My. Barber. Couldn't. Stop. Cutting.

My hair is short. It's thinning. It's gray. It doesn't require a lot of work to cut.

But he kept combing, clipping, combing, combing, clipping, spraying, combing . . . .

I was frustrated, but polite. I told myself that maybe there was a game plan.

Clip. Comb. Comb. Comb. Clip.

Finally, my phone rang. It was Mrs. Brad, informing me that she needed assistance. Finally, I had an excuse.

I told Mr. Comb-Clip-Comb-Comb-Clip that I needed to go. He nodded and took off my bib, never speaking. I paid and left, with a mix of anger, confusion and amusement.

What just happened?

Then I got paranoid. Was this my fault? Is it possible that my barber is somewhere telling people about the weird guy whose hair he cut? The guy who wouldn't just say the cut was good enough? The guy who made him keep on clipping?

Boy, do I miss my old hair place. Where they decided when a haircut was done.

Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.