I walked into a random barbershop on the road and asked for a trim. This seemed like a complete sentence. The barber cut my hair. Our relationship was functioning very well. I supplied hair and money; he supplied scissors and judgment. Civilization once again demonstrated usefulness.

Then, without asking, he reached for the gel. Before I understood what was happening, he pushed my hair into a shape suggesting I was either selling condominiums or managing a Bon Jovi tribute band. He stepped back, examined his work, added more. Then came a perfume spray. He misted me. A fragrance powerful enough to establish jurisdiction over this entire barbershop. I had not requested things I only asked for a trim. The barber believed he was finishing the job. In his mind, a haircut remained incomplete until the customer’s natural appearance had been corrected by many commercial products.

This happens with music on the road. You arrive with songs, a piano and an idea of the evening. Then other people begin helping. The venue decides an opening act is required and perhaps they play for fifty minutes. Perhaps the promoter wants the poster to explain that you were once in Blue Rodeo, in lettering considerably larger than your name. Perhaps the sound technician wants the piano brighter, louder and essentially like something that is not a piano. Perhaps the presenter wants less improvisation and an encore that can be described in advance. Everyone reaches for the gel. They simply cannot resist improving my hair.

Promoters have bills, I understand. Musicians who refuse every compromise eventually perform magnificent uncompromised concerts … in their kitchens. But there is a difference between collaboration and assumption. The most meaningful shows happen when the people presenting them make room for the thing itself. They allow the music to arrive with its own hair. That freedom matters because unusual music may initially look unfinished. An improvisation may begin in an awkward place. A song may resist the haircut required for radio or TikTok. Back at the hotel, I washed everything out. The hair fell where it wanted. I recognized me again.