I always forget how colorful people in San Francisco can be. It is a city that encourages expression and creativity and it shows. Those errant souls who feel repressed in other locales often hear the siren's song and congregate in the Bay Area. During the time I lived in this dreamy city, I certainly crossed paths with many of them. Being away from the Bay Area, I forget the characteristics of those rather unusual folks that make up the vivid pattern of the City's quilt.

Today I encountered one such perfect example. After work and before dinner, I decided to squeeze in an appointment to get my hair colored. Why? Because I can and because I am, as Fang always says, a hair whore. I had wandered into a local salon and was lulled into transforming my current gold blonde shade into an ash blonde by the seductive Israeli salon owner. As he labored over my head, passively discussing the particular sexual propensities of people based solely on their astrological sign, a curious man approached the chair.

This fellow may have been 30 and he was dressed in a San Francisco uniform of green faded cargo pants, a T-shirt, V-neck sweater and a well worn blazer. He had a strong resemblance to Cat Stevens when Cat Stevens was the same age. He had a skullcap of black hair and he had crafted closely shaved mutton chops on his sullen cheeks. He came to the station and gently picked up a pair of hair cutting scissors. Joseph, the salon owner, continued to labor over my head with his brush, oblivious to the young man fondling the delicate shears. But I was watching him closely. He opened the scissors slowly, closely examining the edges of the blade and he held them at level, peering down the peripheral like someone might look down across a golf green before attempting a critical putt.

Joseph finally spoke and asked the young man if he could "get them done today". The young man continued to turn the scissors over, opening them and feeling their resistance. "I don't think so," he replied, "it's raining and I don't work in the rain." At that moment, Joseph was called away to the phone, leaving me and Scissor Man alone.

Now, I'll make conversation with anyone (and especially if someone is intriguing), so you know I had to ask this guy about his business. I inquired if he sharpened scissors. "Yes," he replied in that suffering poet kind of way, "but I do more than that. I restore the scissors and refine their original edges. I am a blademaster." He said it with such mystery that it sounded like he knew where the Dead Sea Scrolls were hidden.

"A blademaster? How did you learn to do that? Is there such a thing as blademaster school?" I asked, trying not to sound like the smart ass that I am.

"No, he replied, "my father taught me. His father taught him." He then proceeded to explain what sorts of stones he used to sharpen the scissors and the time required to refine the edges. He insisted that he preferred not to work in the rain, owing to the damaging effects of the moisture on his metal handiwork. He was so earnest about the work he did that I didn't have the heart to ask how he could make a living doing this, but it was evident that he was doing something that he loved.

I then asked him if he also sharpened knives and Scissor Man's face screwed up. "I don't touch knives. Blademasters only restore scissors."

At that moment, Joseph returned and handed Scissor Man a few pairs of shears that needed his care. Scissor Man gently wrapped them in some soft cloth and put them in his messenger bag. How novel, I thought, and how very San Francisco.

Then Joseph learned over my head with his brush and said in his charming accent, "Now darling, what did you say your astrological sign was?"