People who know me will tell you I’m pretty gorgeous all the time, and it would be both discourteous and dishonest of me to dispute them.

Still, even a man of my enviable physical attributes must at large intervals attend small matters of grooming, lest the unrestrained vigor of my robust animal nature divert admiring eyes away from my Romanesque posture and voluptuous contours. What with the holidays and whatnot, I resolved to engage an expert who could sculpt my luxuriant mane into a proper frame for my chiseled features and cerulean orbs. Best to enter the New Year with best foot forward, I thought. It’s impossible to predict how many women will behold me for the first time in 2014, and native gallantry forbids me from denying them any portion of that full delight.

I normally rely on John to tailor my silken tresses. His barber shop is a manly place, two chairs, Field and Stream magazine, a stuffed trout, pictures of his snowmobile and his handmade log getaway outside Yellowstone National Park. John doesn’t style. He doesn’t shampoo, or gel, or dabble in scents or salves. He cuts hair the way the

pioneers did it, with scissors and clippers and an unblinking faith in Benevolent Destiny.

But on that morning I drove straight past John’s Barber Shop. I had a coupon, you see. There was a new kid in town named Sport Clips, and he was prudently trying to get on my good side with the offer of a free haircut. Since among my many commendable qualities is a highly-developed sense of economy, I figured I’d give some fortunate young haircutter the thrill of their professional life. It was a selfless decision, and typical of my generous spirit, and I started to regret it the moment I walked in the door.

There were big-screen TVs hanging all over the place, all of them tuned to different sporting events. I might not have minded so much if any one of the TVs had been positioned where it could be seen by a person seated in a barber chair, but none of them were. They were, in fact, ideally situated to entertain such as might be in a haircutter’s standing attitude. Like most Alpha males, I believe that a man’s hair is his crowning glory, and I simply can’t approve of anything that might distract a barber’s complete attention from my own.

Worse, he was a she. The staff was uniformly female, and none of it had been alive while the Soviet Union still was. Could I trust such callow flowers with my fulsome locks? The shop’s decidedly Venusian cast also presented a serious moral dilemma. Could I, in good conscience, permit one of those bright-eyed beauties to run their sensitive  fingers through the enchanted forest that rises above my aqualine brow, and thereby ruin themselves at a young age for all subsequent clients?

Still, I had a coupon.

“I’d like a haircut,” I said, pleasantly, but not invitingly.

“Come on over!” chirped the girl behind the counter. “My name’s Katie!”

So bright. So eager. So hungry to please. Poor lass.

Katie seated me smartly, and, I couldn’t help noticing, at a station where I could be easily seen by potential customers passing by on the sidewalk. It was a slightly demeaning, but for a free haircut I supposed it was only fair that I serve as celebrity client-bait. Katie’s hair may once have been a fiery, wiry Irish red after the manner of her Hibernian foremothers, but on that day it was platinum blond, about an inch long, and standing straight up in ragged rows of cruel-looking spikes. I have always supposed that hairdressers assume bizarre and off-putting hair styles as a way to assure customers of that they’re up on all the latest fashion trends. I merely find them bizarre

and off-putting.

 She shook out my cape with a sharp snap, and tied it on me with quick, practiced motions. She spun me around so I could enjoy my view as much as she, and so I couldn’t possibly see any of the TVs.

“Would you like a hand massage?” she asked.

That caught me off guard.

“A what-now?”

“A hand massage. You get a hand massage with your haircut.”

Yeah, I’ll just bet. I hadn’t been in the chair for 60 seconds and Katie was already trying to squeeze me like a ripe melon. I thought it best to nip the thing in the bud.

“No, just a haircut, thanks.”

“Are you sure? You should try it!”

To another man, that might have sounded like sexual harassment. For me, it was just another day-in-the-life.

“No, I’ll stick with the haircut.”

She seemed genuinely disappointed. I felt bad for her, but took some comfort in the knowledge that I was doing her a tremendous favor, whether or not she knew it. My personal dignity is such that I could never become serious about a needy Irish chick with spikey white hair, and there was no point giving her false hope. I’ll give her this, though – she was persistent.

“Do you want a hot towel?”

Why on earth would I want a hot towel? There are probably lots of guys in places like Beverly Hills, and maybe France, who never leave the barber shop without a hand-

massage and a hot towel. But this isn’t 90210 and I’m not Jean-Yves Thibaudet, and plying me with sensual indulgences won’t fill the hole you feel in your heart, Katie. 

“No thanks. Just the haircut.”

Katie worked quickly, efficiently, all the while talking a blue streak, trying to seduce me with words, perhaps hoping a steady stream of verbal intimacies would succeed where brute enticements had failed. She said she was originally from California and had only been in Colorado for a few months. She said she’d had a very nice Christmas. Correctly interpreting my taut cranial muscles as indicating superior athleticism, she said she loved snowboarding and rock climbing, and although she’d never actually done either of those things, would be doing lots of both before too long. I showed a polite interest, but nothing more. She grew quiet, and I had reason to hope she was finally ready to accept me as the-intoxicating-pate-that-got-away. Sadly, I had dangerously underestimated the force of my appeal.

“How does it look?” Katie asked.

“Good,” I replied, carefully stifling any hint of romantic inflection.

“Hey,” she said. “I want you to try something.”

Before I could speak, or make a single move to protect my virtue, Katie grabbed my left hand and dispensed at least two ounces of cold, slick nasty into the palm.

“It’s Tea Tree lotion,” she crooned. “Doesn’t it smell good?”

It did not smell good. It did not feel good. I’m sure there are plenty of guys in places like The Castro and, er, France, who just love getting a handful of greasy stink with their haircuts, but this isn’t San Francisco and I’m not Jean Baptiste Lully. I don’t do lotion, any more than I do bikini-waxes, and for a moment I just stared in confusion at the quivering pile of ick in my hand. Fact is, there’s no cosmetic formulation in the world more soothing, more healing, more lubricating, more rejuvenating than the unique blend of essential oils contained within my own supple, alabaster skin, and if Katie really wanted to do her clients a favor she’d take a swab for chemical analysis at Sport Clips’ commercial laboratory in Greenwich Village, or possibly France.

“Um, I don’t really like lotion,” I said.

“Don’t say that until you rub it in,” she urged. “It’s made with real green tea!”

I tried to rub it in. I really did. But it wasn’t going anywhere. I assume my delicately calibrated sheath was rejecting the contamination with all its might, and all I accomplished was to spread the noxious substance from my recoiling palm to my previously pristine hands and arms. It was awful, and I was getting increasingly frustrated, and then, on the counter next to my chair I saw two clean, white terrycloth towels. They were fluffy and soft and carefully stacked for maximum visual impact. They weren’t for wiping, they were for effect. I grabbed one and started wiping myself down like King Lear trying to cleanse the blood from his murderous hands. Katie frowned, clearly annoyed, and it was with a small twinge of guilt that I realized she must be annoyed with herself for inadvertently displeasing the object of her adoration through rash amorous gesture. After maybe 30 seconds I’d shed as much of the disgusting mess as I figured I was going to, gingerly grabbed my jacket and made for the door. I thrust an oily $5 bill into her hand as I passed, hoping the liberal tip would ease the pain in her heart. She intercepted me by the counter.

“Just one sec, okay?”

I winced, dreading the prospect of being forced to declare my emotional indifference toward her in stark terms, and fearing the flood of tears that must inevitably result.

“Can I have your phone number?”

It had been only a matter of time, I guess.You’re young!, I wanted to say. You’ll find a nice fellow one day. A fellow with hair of his own, hair meant only for you! Not this heaven-sent cornsilk, of course, but some rough and inferior fiber that you can comb and pet and scrape out of the shower drain. But I didn’t say that. It was all so tragic.

“I don’t think so,” I smiled, gently.

“How about an email address?”

“No, I’d rather not.’

“You’re missing out. We send coupons. Good ones!”

I could have wept for her sake if I hadn’t been so intent on getting home and scouring myself with lye soap.

“No, no, I’m good with the haircut,” I assured her, and turned away.

“Just one more thing,” Katie said, insistently. Here it comes, I thought. The ugly scene. From beneath the counter she produced a 10-ounce bottle and thrust it forward, almost into my befouled hand.

“Would you like to buy some Tea Tree lotion to take home?”

I fled into the parking lot, never to return.

I still think about Katie now and then. I think about her yearning heart. About her spikey hair. About her sad optimism and doomed perseverance. About her willingness to sacrifice every last shred of self-respect in the cause of unrequited love. But mostly I think a free haircut is simply not worth the emotional cost of breaking a young girl’s heart, nor sufficient compensation for getting lotioned against my will. I will not see Katie again. And that’s too bad, really, because it was a really good haircut. I’m better looking than ever.