My version of purgatory, I have now realized, is waiting in line at Great Clips to get my beard trimmed

I show up at 5:20, after an 8 hour work day

I have groceries to get, errands to run, a Friday to enjoy

I am 7th on the queue and the third person on the list with a green check next to his name

I take out my book, time passes

People who have come to this particular establishment for more complicated procedures than beard trims waltz in confidently, glance at the words 90+ Minutes emblazoned proudly in the upper right hand corner of the screen, and anxiety sets in

We are, all of us, playing a game to see if one of us will luck out and get what we want before they close at 7:00

In particular, I’m playing chicken with an angry bald man in the corner who’s glowering at his sensible blue sneakers

There are currently two hairdressers on shift

A younger woman in a blue shirt and an older woman in a long orange flowery blouse named Beverly

She looks like my hippy conservative middle school theater director’s mother

I remind myself I’m in it for the long haul and anger is not an option

They don’t care if you leave scruffy and dejected

You can see it in the faces of all the touched-up model photos that line the walls

They cherish your rage

It will satisfy them far more than your money ever could, which is obvious when you look at the at least nine unused stations in this depressingly empty building

Baldy leaves in a huff

The door slams behind him

I check my watch

It’s 5:57

I sigh

These women are good at their jobs, they take their time

The younger woman is stuck in a conversation with an old lady about the recent presidential debate

“How’d we do last night?”

“I don’t know, I don’t keep up with it.”

“You really should, you know, it’s the future of your country.”

As she pays for her $20 cut, a voice within me wants to ask what the point of chastising someone is if you’ve openly admitted you haven’t watched the debate either, and point out that her hair looks much the same as it did half an hour ago

I remain quiet

When Beverly checks in another patron at 6:10, she shoots me a look that says

“I know you’ve been waiting here for almost an hour, and the people above you on the list only just showed up. I heard you say you needed a beard trim when you walked in. I know full well what I’m doing. Fucking try me, young man, I swear to God. I will run you through with my blending scissors if you make so much as a peep, you dumb mother-fucker.”

Beverly doesn’t play

In quick succession, three separate people come in and claim their top three spots on the list, and my heart sinks

What’s the point of adding your name two hours in advance and taking the time to wait

If people who clearly have more to do can just walk in right away and get their cuts as soon as they see a text

The system that has been set in place is not a fair one

Another woman walks in with her children

“Did you do a haircut for someone with long black hair last week?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

“Do you have records or photos of your clients?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“I just want my hair to look like hers, okay? Can you get me in while my kids eat their pizza over there?”

“No, we cannot.”

Three more cuts, three more dirty looks from Beverly

At 6:38 I sit down in the chair and they drape the smock over me

It’s my turn for small talk

Of course, at no point do I mention that my trim takes five minutes

And I’ve been here two hours

That would be uncouth

Instead I tip her, pay and leave

They don’t need my bullshit

I’m gonna buy some ravioli and go home