Time for a Haircut

My old Barber moved, without leaving me an indication where to find him, and I needed to get a haircut before leaving on a business trip. We booked at a new place and I hoped for the best. Traffic was a bear and I spent an extra 15 minutes giving instructions to other drivers. I am not sure whether or not they heard me since both our car windows were rolled up. 

As I walked in 15 minutes late, I met my barber. He was cool about my tardiness and handed me a beer. I sat down and explained what my last barber did and he swirled me away from the mirror and went to work. A few minutes and a reversed swirl later I was amazed at what he had done. All of my hair was gone. (Stubble does not count.) He apologized, but there wasn't much to be done about it other than to make the remainder match and finish the beer.

Shorn more deeply than a lamb, I left in shock.

 

During dinner we talked about the weather; with temperatures climbing over one-hundred or at the minimum the high nineties. Flynn and Duncan, having very short coats would be in heave. Frank however, was already panting heavily and the temperature was only in the low eighties. I decided that Frank needed a haircut.

Up until this point Frank has not let us clean his eyes or inspect a paw. There have been snaps and angry growls with even the hint of something other than a pet or a scratch. Not everybody agreed a haircut was a good idea, but I figured it would help Frank.

Inside the house, I let him smell the clippers. He was okay with that. 

I ran the clippers, unplugged, through his hair. It was weird, but he was okay with it. Then we went outside, and I plugged the clippers in and held it away from his face so he could smell it. Still, good with it. I turned the clippers on and Frank gave me a sideways glance, obviously not as sure about the buzzing. Nervously, I started to run the clippers through the hair of his back.

Good boy, Frank." I reassured him. His eyes told me this was an odd experience for him. Frank just stood still while I continued running the clippers through his back and mentioning the reasons why this would be beneficial; "It is going to be really hot Frank, this will feel good." "You're going to look great. All the chicks love a sharp looking guy."  Despite being a little tense, there was no indication that a growl or bite were likely as long as I kept talking.

 "Does it tickle, Frank" Even without his collar on, Frank stood still. The back, sides, legs and undercarriage were taken in stride. When I neared the top of his head and eyebrows, Frank tried to follow the motion of the clippers with his eyes. It seemed likely that his eyes were going to roll back into his head as he watched the movements of my hand.

 

I talked so much through the haircut that I'm sure Frank was tired of hearing me talk. Kind of like when you go to a stylist and they have to tell you about their day -- when you also have had a day. Frank stood relatively motionless; with a small turn to the side as I completed each part of his body. Was he telling me to make sure it was even?

 

I took extra time on the ears and neck, actually stalling to give me some time before moving on to the muzzle. With a pile of fur at our feet and nothing else to trim it was time to trim his face. Frank and I both stiffened as I was caught in the first tangle. I reversed the trimmer and took off the guide; the remainder would have to be done with trust and without a guide.

"You're looking good, Frank." I doubt he even understood what I was saying since he was standing completely frozen. Nevertheless, I kept talking to him and slowly stroked away tangles, matts and what I think was evidence of breakfast. Frank was looking pretty dapper I could only find a couple spots I wanted to touch up.  Frank however had enough and started to move away. I caught him with my hand and we locked eyes. Rather than looking into a mirror to see if he was done, Frank looked into my eyes and asked if he could go. 

I dropped my hand from his collar and Frank turned away. After three cycles of vigorous shakes, Frank went looking for a ball. It was time to celebrate. Tearing through the yard, Frank was pleased with his new haircut. He must have been able to feel the wind rushing through a little bit better. Even if the wind was only at his meager three miles an hour.

Frank not only looks more like a puppy, he's acting more like a puppy. My hair was cut by a licensed professional, and his was cut by an amateur -- and he still looks better than me. I'm pretty impressed with Frank's patience and believe that every little experience like this builds on the trust we are establishing. And me? I'm still looking for a new barber to trust.

 

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