One Egg Shy

The musings of Chris. Writer, humanitarian, hero.

Friday, January 27, 2006

A little short

I fucking hate getting my hair cut.

I hate reading bad magazines while I wait. It’s like high school all over again: the hip guys always grab GQ before I get there, the jocks grab ESPN the Magazine, and I’m left cleaning my retainer while reading Popular Science.

I hate never having a specific person that I want to request. I’ve never developed enough of a rapport with any of the assembly line workers to actually seek their service again. I worry that all the good girls–Brenda, Maryann, Candy–have been snagged up by the waiting patrons, and I’ll be left with Sarah-the-new-girl.

When I do actually sit down, I feel stupid because I never know exactly what I want done to my hair. It’s be easier if I had a hip celebrity to emulate. “I want the Brad Pitt” or the “Johnny Depp” doesn’t really work because 1) they are good-looking enough to pull off any hair style and 2) they could be doing a role where they are a cancer patient that I was unaware of, meaning I come out of the place completely bald. Normally the girl tries to help me out. “How do you wear it?” she’ll ask. “On my head,” I reply. The blowdrier sounds exceptionally loud after a bad joke.

I hate the hair cutting process. Since I can’t wear my glasses, I’m never able to tell exactly what is being done. They could be adding pink highlights and I wouldn’t even know it. I also hate how the women press their genitals against my elbow while they lean in to cut my hair. Why does the arm of the chair have to be exactly crotch-level? Oh, and for some reason the Glassboro Haircuttery gets all the rejects from the other Haircutteries in terms of looks–we get the fatties, the bad complexionies, the pregnanties, and the cockeyedies. I still ask them out, but I do so reluctantly.

The absolute worst part is the awkward attempt at small talk. I usually try to give off an air of “Don’t talk to me,” but it doesn’t always work. I’ve entertained the thought of trying to invent new stories every time I go in, but I’m too lazy. “Oh, I’m an astronaut.” “I am a professional wrestler.” “I race ostriches.” I can really be whomever I want, but I usually just tell the lame, boring truth and let my answer hang like a dirty towel in the air. This frigid front I put up also ensures that the girl will rush through the haircut, getting me out of there quicker.

Haircuts are freakin’ expensive too, which is why I try to wait as long as possible until getting one. A good barometer of when one is needed is the first time you are mistaken for a homeless person. On top of the price of the actual haircut is the tip. As Mr. Pink in Reservoir Dogs laments, how does society decide who is tip worthy and who isn’t? Why do I have to tip some bitch for snapping her scissors a few times? They should know I’m broke by the way I dress and the stink of failure that emanates from my pores.

So what prompted this diatribe was today’s experience. It’s almost the new year, so I thought it was time for a new do. I scrounged together $13 in buffalo nickels and headed to el cuttery de capelli (that sentence was a bastard of like four languages). It was pretty slow for a Thursday at 1:24, so Crystal, the girl at the front desk, took me right on back. She asked what I wanted done. I said, “a 2 on the sides and a half-inch off the top.” Pretty simple, right? Not for Crystal. She talked with other people in store while cutting, sensing my reluctance. Perhaps she was upset that I wasn’t more loquacious, because she definitely cut off most of my hair. Since I wasn’t wearing my glasses and was distracted by the feel of her cootch on my left elbow, I didn’t notice until it was too late. I’ve actually never complained before about a bad haircut; I mean, it’ll always grow back, right? But this time I was combative.

“How does it look?” she asked when her butcher job was completed.

“How, exactly, does this qualify as a half inch?”

“Oh, is it too short?”

“It’d be too short for a lesbian.”

She felt bad and ended up charging me the kid’s price, and for once I didn’t worry about a tip. But here’s a tip for you. Join me in my new crusade to become like the mighty Samson. Don’t get your hair cut again. Ever.

3 Comments:

  • At 3:23 PM, Blogger Jason said…

    Hero? I don't know about that. George Mason, now there's a hero. A true American hero.

    Remember that chick Valerie that rode our bus junior year? She works at the hair cuttery in glassboro. She's a little fatter now. She has a nice face and pretty eyes but her teeth are horrible. I saw her and Mike Rucci there at the same time. It was kind of funny. I didn't even realize it was Mike Rucci at first. I talked to him briefly. He's a good guy.

     
  • At 4:06 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    If you can't afford a tip, you can't afford a haircut. It's not the hairdresser's fault that you are a failure.

     
  • At 6:40 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    mike rucci? you sure?

     

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