a lot off the top

Home is where the heart is, and today, where the haircut is too. When you combine heart and hair, you get Nathan Rival.

Ever since Nathan decided to emancipate himself from the confines of the salon, he's been clipping my locks dans la maison.

I should be getting my haircut every five to six weeks considering the preferred length, however good cuts, like anything these days, aren't exactly cheap.

He arrived at 2:00, and I offered him a coffee. Stirring in a pinch of Bailey's, which he so conveniently produced from his stylist's satchel, we started to talk crop.

"Nathan," I said, "I look like George Harrison."

He explained that my usual style, an inventive take on an almost-sorta-maybe-bowl cut, can only grow into one thing: a real, live, early-to-mid 90's, bona-fide Jonathan Taylor Thomas bowl cut. That can be dangerous.

"With frequent haircuts this can be avoided," he said.
"But, on your budget," he continued, after surveying the status of my refrigerator, "I'm afraid the only way to dodge this is by cutting it a bit shorter to begin with."

And so we did. As it turns out, a bit to a hairdresser is a lot to a real person.

At first, I was shocked to see the hair on the floor. I was bounded by a moat of brown fluff pooling at my heels. I began to worry. If all that's down there, then what's up here?

I listen to the sound of the scissor, then the razor, then the scissor again for twenty-five minutes before he even let me touch.

Finally, after a wait that felt like forever, he walked me to the mirror.

"It's short," I said. And it was.

Two hours later, it still is. It hasn't grown at all since he left, but the cut itself is growing on me more and more by the second.

It really accentuates my... skull.
Adrian will love that.

And, if I go take a shower, put on a bra, and apply some makeup, I'm sure I'll love it too.

Because no matter what, no one can cut it like Nate.