I got a haircut last week. I didn't really need one yet, but Catherine's was getting into town soon and I thought I'd better get through those first few awkward post-haircut days before she arrived.

So I headed into my favorite non-threatening haircut factory chain, gave them my name and waited to be randomly assigned to a stylist. This is a risk, I know. Most people develop a personal relationship with the person who cuts their hair. It's understandable — this person holds a lot of control over your life, and you have to trust in them completely. It's kind of like with Jesus, except the tipping mechanism is different.

But I like a more stochastic approach. Usually I'll draw someone from the thick hump of the bell curve — a pleasant immigrant lady without much English who does a good but unremarkable job. Other times I'll luck out and get one of the women who dress like fortune tellers (quick rule of thumb: the more jangly bracelets, the better the haircut is going to be). Once or twice in Cherrydale I got a smokin' hot Asian girl with a fondness for sporting leather pants and bored expressions. She gave me terrible haircuts that I didn't mind a bit.

Today was slightly different, though. I got a male stylist. Not so weird in itself, but he didn't fall into either of the male hairdresser stereotypes: he was neither grizzled nor effeminate. He was just some guy, about my age, with a goatee. If I ran into him in any other setting, I would address him as "dude". He was a dude.

I'd been in this situation before, in a slightly more traditional barbershop setting. The barber and I got through it by talking a lot about how great it was when the Redskin Cheerleaders visited his mall. You know what else is great? Sports! Yeah man. Also, heterosexuality. Bitchin'!

But this time there was a shampoo involved. That proved to be a problem. I'd like to jump to my own defense and say "it's not that I'm homophobic!", but I'm not sure that I'm the one who gets to make that call. You can, after all, get into a lot of trouble for declaring yourself "not sexist" (lousy bitches). Still, I don't think it was homophobia.

I say that because, in a way, it was the complete lack of sexual tension that I found so disturbing. I find scalp massages, or anything approximating a scalp massage, to be just about the greatest thing ever. In Charlottesville I once got a haircut from a woman who was also a masseuse, and who tried to up-sell me on her services by administering a scalp massage more thorough than my $11 actually justified. I walked away utterly relaxed, feeling like my bones had been replaced with a pleasantly warm liquid filling. Also, I was keenly aware that I owed Catherine some flowers.

It just isn't the same when a dude — not a professional male hair-cutter, but a dude — is handling the hair washing. All I could think was "I'm paying for this?" and "How did our lives lead us to this moment?"

I need to be sold on the shampoo. I need to think the shampooer cares deeply about his job and, more importantly (of course!), my personal well-being; that this isn't just some horrible kabuki intended to symbolize clients' dominance over their groomers. This guy looked like he was just counting the hours until he had to go pick up his stripper girlfriend. Which is fine, but kind of diminishes the experience. Seriously, just give me a sink and a towel. I think I can figure it out.