Chapter Six, Part II

Kara turned out to be totally different than Jake's initial impressions. She slowed down enough for Jake to recognize that it was nervousness and not illegal stimulants that made her talk fast. Jake could answer her questions without being railroaded. Most of her questions focued on what Jake did. He mentioned he was a law school student which made Kara act even more desperate for Jake to pretend to be her boyfriend. He saw her reflection in the mirror and she had that weird look in her eyes, that look that certain females get when they discover a man is relatively good looking and has a good job or has the potential to have a good job, as in attending a professional school like law or medicine or business. He had to end this line of questioning quickly.
Jake said, "I'm dating someone right now, as in serious relationship. If I weren't seeing someone, I might might have been crazy enough to do something like that. People at law school are notorious for spreading gossip."
"Oh." She resumed cutting his hair and she asked, "By any chance, do you have any single male friends?"
Jake laughed. Kara was persistent or possibly crazy. One could never be too sure as the line between the two was blurry. Thomas Edison failed thousands of times in trying to find a suitable material for the part that glowed and carried current in the incandescent lightbulb. Some might have called this effort futile after failing a thousand times, but he persisted in his pursuit. He finally found the right material and the rest was history. He had to admire her in this respect.
"Yes, in fact, I do. I'm not too sure if they would go along with this." He laughed. "I might, however, suggest they come over to this place for haircuts. You might find someone you like. What about that?"
"That would be nice."
Jake quickly glanced at the mirror. Something appeared different for some reason. It took a while, but his hair seemed shorter than normal. Then again, hair a half-inch long was pretty short. Most people didn't know the difference anyways. It was probably a half inch long.
For a person cutting hair the first time, at least on an actual customer, she was doing very well. Kara had a friendly personality and interacted well with people. Judging her progress, Kara was halfway done with cutting his hair. She was efficient with cutting hair, a quality that most places were lacking. Jake was confident things would turn out fine, despite the nagging thought that his hair was too short for his tastes. He was probably just mistaken.
As it so happened, the owner walked by and said, "His hair is very short. It looks like a quarter inch, if I'm not mistaken." She asked Jake, "Did you ask for your hair to be this short?"
Jake answered, "I wanted my hair a half-inch long. How long did you say it was?" Maybe that nagging feeling was correct. He should have listened to his instincts a lot more.
"Based upon experience, I'd say a quarter inch? Kara, what guard number are you using?"
From Jake's experience, he knew that the guard number refered to the length the hair would be cut. The lower the number, the shorter the length of the hair. Most places used Wahl electric clippers and a number six was an one-inch' guard and a number one was an one-eighth inch guard. The quarter-inch guard would be a number two. The half-inch guard would be a number four. He knew this as his next-door neighbor worked at a hair salon equipment store. She sold equipment to all the hair salons in town. If Kara said, "Number two," his hair was a quarter-inch long, and not a half-inch long. Jake hoped it was a number four.
"Um, let me see." She looked at the number on the guard and said, "Oh, it's a number two. Uh oh, I used the wrong guard. I'm so sorry. I guess I didn't notice."
Jake, for some reason, didn't get angry or furious. He stayed very calm. When he was younger and he got a bad haircut, he would have experienced a sudden upsurge in anger and other nasty emotions, but never violence. That would have been extremely stupid. It was also expensive. He had to help pay for many shattered windows as a young child. Jake quickly learned to stay calm and not act so rashly. Besides, it was hair and it would grow back soon. That and it couldn't be that bad. People made mistakes.
The store owner said, "This really shouldn't have happened."
Jake said, "People make mistakes. It's hair and it'll grow back. Let's see if you can salvage something from this."
"Hmm...let's see. It's possible, but it might be hard." After examining the state of Jake's hair, she concluded by saying, "I might be able to come up with something."
She took scissors and did her best to salvage something from the current situation. It took twenty minutes, but she did manage to come up with an acceptable solution. Jake looked in the mirror and saw that his hair didn't look too military like a crew cut or a buzz cut. It wasn't what what he had in mind originally, but at least his hair style looked normal, just with shorter hair than he would have liked.
With the haircut (more like an aborted haircut and a haircut reconstructive surgery) completed, they went through the post-haircut procedure. This involved brushing the hair off the hair-barrier device, the removal of this device, the disposal of the paper neck barrier, and all the minor details that follow the normal haircut. When these rituals were completed, Jake and the owner went to the cash register for the most important post-haircut ritual, the payment of fees.
The store owner apologized again and Jake replied that it was just hair and it would grow back. Yes, his hair was much shorter than he expected, but it looked normal.
Jake took out his wallet and asked, "How much do I pay?"
The owner said, "Oh no, you don't own anything. This haircut is free."
Jake put his wallet back into his wallet and said, "Thanks. See you later. Bye."
He exited the store and entered his car. Jake drove home. He had laundry to do. He barely noticed his haircut.

Chapter Five, Part II and Chapter Six, Part I

He quickly fired up AOL Instant Messenger and sent a message to Clarissa. As soon as he sent it, there was a knock at the door. Jake hoped it was the floral delivery person and not one of the many law school students who randomly knocked doors thinking class was over at 2:45 PM and not at 3:20 PM. Nearly all the law school classes ended at twenty minutes past the hour like 9:20 AM or 12:20 PM. Some classes ended exactly at the hour like Professional Responsibility, but it was only once a week and three hours long. It was an aberrant course. In addition, a large number of people found it boring. Well, it wasn't boring per se, but a large number of students found it useless. How hard was it to be ethical? Jake had not taken the class, but he managed to condense it to the following rule: don't screw your client physically or financially. A simple five-minute lesson. If it sounded remotely suspicious or unethical, don't do it. He didn't understand what was made the rules so hard to comprehend. There were so many cases of lawyers who didn't know that illegal drug use was bad and that siphoning money from the law firm to pay for the habit was unethical as well as illegal. He never ceased to be amazed at the excuses lawyers came up with. It was most likely a law school student confused with the simple concept of when classes were over.
Fortunately for Jake, fate worked in unusual ways, sometimes in very good ways. It wasn't a perpetually confused law school student, but the floral delivery person. He was actually on time and not late, which was a surprise for Jake. How did Jake know? It isn't everyday when a man wearing a neatly-pressed suit and carrying a bouquet of long-stem roses in a vibrant shade of crimson, several Mylar balloons with "Happy Birthday" scrolled in pnk, and an oversized and overstuffed toy animal (a teddy bear) comes to class. In general, your normal law school student (confused or otherwise), administration official, or staff member does not come in such garb and at such an hour.
Everyone turned around to see who was interrupting class. Professor LaRusso stopped in the middle of his lecture. He saw the man with the flowers and everything else and decided this was Jake's surprise. He didn't know of anyone else who planned a "surprise" today, especially one involving flowers. This was a surprise in more than one way. This was the first time a flower delivery happened during class. Unexpected, but much better than some of the other surprises that could have happened, like the infamous "pie incident" involving a former Torts professor and a student who smashed a whipped cream pie into the professor's face.
Professor LaRusso said, "Yes, may I help you?"
The delivery man said, "Sorry to interrupt, but is there a Clarissa Westwood in this class? I have a special delivery for her."
"Why, yes there is." Professor LaRusso pointed at Clarissa. "Ms. Westwood the blond female wearing the red shirt and black jacket in the third row. Ms. Westwood, could you please raise your hand? Ms. Westwood?"
Jessica shook Clarissa and told her that she should raise her hand. Clarissa dazedly raised her hand and the deliveryman made a beeline to her seat. After maneuvering through an aisle littered with backpacks and laptop cases, the deliveryman dropped off the balloons, the roses, and the stuffed animal at her seat. Clarissa cleared some space so she could place them on the desk. The area around her feet was cluttered and she didn't want to crush the flowers.
After the deliveryman exited the class and the doors closed, Professor LaRusso said, "So, Mr. Lau, we had a conversation a while ago, didn't we?" He saw Jake nod and he continued. "I believe you mentioned something about a surprise. Was this the surprise you were talking about?"
Jake nodded and said, "Yes it was."
Professor LaRusso said, "It was a very nice surprise. Unexpected, but a nice surprise. I'm glad it wasn't a pie in my face, like a former Torts professor." He paused and added, "Next time you plan another surprise to happen during this class, please tell me beforehand. Just one question, Mr. Lau. What possessed you to do this?"
Jake gave a wry grin, one that was slightly crooked. "The same reason you give someone like your wife a fee simple absolute, ball of wax."
"Ah, that is an excellent reason, very nicely worded unlike the UPC at certain times. Which reminds me, it's time to get back to the subject at hand." Professor LaRusso looked at his notes and resumed his lecture. Jake was sure he saw a slight grin on Professor LaRusso's face.
Jake resumed typing his notes for Estates and Trusts. He was quite satisfied at this moment. He kept his surprise a secret and it happened with clockwork precision. Like Hannibal Smith of the A-Team, Jake loved it when a plan came together.



Chapter Six: Not Making the Cut

"A nest for birds
There ain't no words
For the beauty, the splendor, the wonder
Of my...
Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair"
-"Hair", Hair the Musical Soundtrack

After waking up one Saturday morning, Jake looked in the bathroom mirror and saw his hair was beginning to enter what he called "porcupine mode." Being an Asian, he had a thick forest of black hair with the texture of stiff bristles commonly found on tub-scrubbing implements. It was a common genetic disposition for most Asians, akin to the blue eyes and blond hair of Scandinavians. Jake could treat his hair with mousse, gel, hairs pray, conditioners containing silk protein and other exotic materials, and it would never be silky smooth or soft by any stretch of the definition. There was only one good thing about his hair: it was highly unlikely he would go bald. His male relatives had full heads of hair that turned a distinguished shade of silver or gray. Well, at least those that survived long enough to have gray hair. That pesky habit of overindulgence in alcohol sort of cut their lives early, many years below the average life expectancy for males.
"Porcupine mode" meant his hair began to stick up and failed to stay down. His hair looked like a porcupine somehow managed to climb on his head and decided to make permanent residence, thereby changing its personal jurisdiction from the friendly woods to his cranium. This wasn't a bad mode for his hair to be in.
What was worse than "porcupine mode" was "bird's nest mode." Jake knew exactly when his hair entered "bird's nest mode." For some reason, he measured how long his hair was when it entered this state. This was crazy, but Jake was an unusual person in such respects. Once it grew past two inches in length, it defied all laws of known physics and mocked gravity. No amount of combing could keep his hair down. Jake would fall asleep and the next morning, his hair looked like a giant bird's nest, one fit for a bald eagle or any bird of prey. Birds would literally fly and land on his head when his hair grew that long.
Jake would go to a pet store and look at the parrots, parakeets, cockatoos, and other assorted pet birds. If he stuck his finger by their feet, a bird would scale his arm, hop a bit, flap their wings, and land on the top of his head. After rearranging some stray hairs and forming something resembling a suitable nest, the bird would sit on his head and turn it into a highrise condominium. If Jake stood still for a few minutes, more birds would perch on his shoulder or his arm. He resembled a scarecrow, but with much nicer looking birds. This scene would attract a large number of people to mill around Jake. People found this site to be humorous. By this time, the pet store owner would finally notice something was wrong. The store owner would see Jake covered with birds, but wouldn't give Jake assistance in removing the birds for some odd reason. After all, anyone with ten or twenty assorted birds on them can't be in trouble, despite actively pleading for someone to help remove said birds off their body and out of their hair. After a few minutes of staring at Jake as if was spasming randomly and not making feeble attempts at removing the birds off his body, the store owner would finally get the picture and help remove the birds off of Jake.
Jake's hair, during this state, resisted all efforts at combing. He could stick a comb in his hair and it would stay in place like it was permanently affixed with ultra-strength Crazy Glue. Romantic moments involving running fingers through his hair were impossible. If someone managed to run their fingers through his hair, it would be lacking in many ways. One female did accomplish this momentous task and described the experience as "unusual, if not somewhat pleasant." What this phrase meant, Jake wasn't so sure. She also said his hair had the texture of "shag carpet." Not a very nice description, but she did have a smile on her face when she said it. So "shag carpet" wasn't so bad, after all. Then again, Jake had been wrong many times when it came to interpreting body language and the female mind.
Because he didn't like his hair in such an unruly state, Jake decided to go to a barber to get a haircut. Being a person motivated by practicality and not by current fashion, he liked his hair cut short, about a half-inch in length. Any shorter and he would look like a Buddhist monk or someone with a fascination with the military. Any longer, and Jake's hair looked like a porcupine. With short hair, he didn't get as hot in the summer, he didn't have to use a comb or other hair products to keep it nice, and he didn't need to use a blowdryer for ten minutes to dry his hair. It only took a couple brisk rubs of a towel to sufficiently dry it.
He dressed and drove to a barbershop he had visited many times before. Jake was confident his haircut experience would go off without any problems. How hard would it be to use electric clippers set at a half-inch? What could possibly go wrong? Jake was soon to find out that such a simple task could go badly.

When Jake arrived at the barbershop (now called hair salons or some other preposterous terms), he saw that it was a slow day. That was perfectly fine with Jake. When barbers--hair stylists, Jake now noted--were busy and there was a large crowd waiting to get a haircut, they made mistakes. Normally, when they made mistakes, Jake inevitably ended up the bad haircut victim. Throughout the years, Jake received the bad end of the stick. Every bad haircut style--the Beatle-like mop top, the "shred head" look of a barber using a weedwhacker to cut his hair, the hockey player look (think of an over-the-top mullet)--Jake had received at one time or another. Jake had enough bad haircuts to last a lifetime. Why he got stuck with the most incompetent hair stylists who decided that his head would be a canvas for their "art" was beyond his comprehension. The bad haircut would occur before an important event like his high school graduation, his college graduation, an event where a video camera would be focusing on him, and so forth. It always happened. Because of this, he planned his haircuts at least three weeks before any major event occurred, giving him enough time to get it restyled if a bad haircut happened, as on average, human hair grows about a half inch in a month. Jake's hair grew a quarter-inch faster than that average.
After checking in with the receptionist, Jake was led to a red-headed hair stylist named Kara. He sat down and Kara efficiently fastened the oversized bib-like device that prevented hair from falling down ones shirt and on ones clothing while the stylist clipped and trimmed hair. After exchanging the normal, ordinary verbal pleasantries like "How are you?," "What's your name?" and "Are you single because my mom is visiting and she thinks I have a boyfriend and I really don't and I need someone to act like my boyfriend for a weekend?," she started cutting his hair. Jake carefully mentioned he wanted his hair cut with electric clippers and he wanted his hair a half-inch long. He answered her questions and politely declined her offer of pretending to be her boyfriend. In addition to a history of getting stuck with incompetent hair stylists, Jake ended up getting hair stylists who could be mentally unstable or suffering from attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder. Jake discovered she was single, she turned 21 on Friday, and she recently graduated from beauty technician school or whatever it was called. All of this information came in one long, breathless, run-on sentence. Some people called this behavior "perky" or "bubbly", but Jake called it "Alvin and the Chipmunks wired up on methamphetamines" speech. Jake barely got in a word edgewise. In addition to talking faster than a souped-up racecar with a 700 horsepower engine and nitro burst, she suffered from verbal diarrhea, or loosening of the vowels. Jake hoped the brakes would slow her pace down or at least put her words per minute from 300 to 0 in five seconds.
Normally, Jake would have felt uncomfortable when he heard that the hairstylist was a recent graduate of beauty technician school. New people meant trouble as magically forgot how to use scissors or hairstyling implements like electric trimmers. This amazing amnesia of using the tools of the trade led to forgetting how to style hair properly without making the person's hair look like a dead skunk run over by a 18 wheeler or a coonskin cap dragged through the mud for several years and chewed by moths. It was the plummeting elevator of reasoning leading to the seventh level of bad haircut hell or at best, bad haircut purgatory. Years of decent haircuts at this hair styling establishment, however, lowered his guard down. He had many new stylists at this shop cut his hair, and they all cut his hair well enough to meet his standards. This experience would be no different or so Jake thought.