I got a haircut last week. I checked online for appointment times and noticed my usual stylist wasn't available at all. After walking in, I inform them I am not scheduled for an appointment. The guy working the counter points me over to this scrawny guy who looked like your typical hipster with his wavy hair, black rimmed glasses, neatly trimmed mustache, and checkered dress shirt tucked in. Let's call him Edward Scissorhands. Why? Because the man was so hellbent on doing the entire cut with scissors.
My previous stylist could talk for hours and still have the same pep in her voice as when she began talking. The first time I ever got my hair cut by her, I was humming a song on the radio and she forever remembered me by that. Every time afterwards she would ask me to hum or sing along to the song on the radio. She would always rave on about the shampoo she used because it felt like an IcyHot on your scalp.
Edward Scissorhands seemed like he was afraid of talking. He would ask a question here and there, but I could tell from the strain in his voice that he preferred not to talk. I didn't mind. I don't like being forced to maintain a conversation with someone who doesn't want to talk. I'm more comfortable letting there be a silence. And I'm sure he wanted it to be silent too. So I kept my mouth shut except for the few word answers I would give him to his sporadic questions.
Not everyone is a conversationalist and that's fine. The manager came up afterwards and berated him for not talking more to which I tried to assure him that I was okay with it.
Then again, I would rather prefer my hair stylist to be able to hold a conversation than taxi drivers. Holding a conversation with Syracuse taxi drivers is one of the things I abhor the most. I am forced to listen and respond since I'm the only one in the car. That and it's usually in the morning when I miss the bus to the Warehouse and I'm sweating buckets in fear of being late to class. Less chit-chat and more driving.