I got my hair cut today. I’ve been growing it out for eight months now, because my princess wanted to see me with long hair. It was long enough that I could almost put it in a little ponytail at the back. It would have been a lame-ass ponytail, and I wouldn’t have done it, but I’m just telling you that it could have been done. You know—so you’ll get a picture about how long it was.
I hate when my hair gets all shaggy around my ears. Like when I can’t tuck it under a cap because it sticks out everywhere. Which is what it was doing, and then some. So I decided to go to Supercuts. In my experience, the people at Supercuts cut hair slightly worse than if you had a stoned monkey with a machete do it, but I’m usually safe because I require only the simplest of haircuts.
In fact, in the last ten years of my life, I have requested only two different styles of hair. One goes, “I need a Caesar cut, shaved with a number two on the sides.” And they go “How do you want it on the sides?” And I go, “Fade.”
And then they cut my hair. Usually takes about eight minutes or so. Anywhere in the country, I can walk in, say these things, and usually get the haircut I want. Except for at Supercuts. I don’t know what it is with these fuckin’ morons, but they’re the only ones who have ever managed to screw this up.
I walked out once, it was like I had a hairy drink coaster sitting on top of my head. The sides of my head were practically hided. But even at Supercuts, they can usually get this style of haircut right.
The second style goes, “I’m growing it out on top, so stay away from there—just cut the sides and the back.”
“Start with number three, please, and we’ll see how it goes from there.”
Usually takes about ten minutes.
Today was my first time requesting this style at Supercuts, and I should have known that something was amiss when the lady asked me if I wanted it all done with scissors.
“Do you want me to only use scissors?”
“I, um…whatever you prefer. I just, you know—want the sides and back cut short, and the top left like it is.”
She goes around my head, cutting about a quarter of an inch off the end of my hair. Then she looks at me in the mirror. “Like that?”
“Well, um…see, I want the sides and the back cut really close to my head. Really short, you know?” I take my hand out from under the hair shield blanket thing and show her where I’m talking about. “See? Just right here? That’s where I want it cut really short.”
“Oh, okay!” She goes to work with the scissors again, doing the same exact thing she did the first time. When she’s finished, she looks at me again. “That good?”
I’m sitting there in this chair trying to figure out how to tell her what I need her to do. I used to speak fluent moron, but I’ve been out of customer service for a long time now, so I’m a little rusty. The thing is, this bitch has scissors, and I don’t want to piss her off, because even if she doesn’t just flat-out start stabbing me, she can cut my hair all funky so that I look like even more of a goofy bastard than usual. Come to find out, it didn’t really matter.
“Right here, where my hands are? I would like that shaved with a number two—with your electric razor?”
“And right here,” I say, touching all the hair on the top part of my head, “I would like this left alone.”
“Oh, okay.” She goes and gets her electric razor, she puts the proper fitting on it, and walks around behind me. She starts cutting, and it feels like she’s doing it right. Then she steps around to the side, and immediately runs the razor up the side of my head, taking off most of the stuff on top, too. It must be some sort of haircutter trick I tell myself. Probably it just looked like she’s cutting the part I told her to stay away from like twenty times.
She does it again. “Don’t cut the stuff on top, though, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, and continues cutting.
“Good enough?” She asks when she’s done. It looks nothing like the haircut I asked for.
“Just let me out of this chair,” I tell her.
“So that works?”
What this crackhead scissor jockey has done is cut off all the hair I’ve been growing out for the last eight months of my life, with the exception—I found out when I got home and took a shower—of the front. Here’s how it is: the back and the side of my head is covered with about a half-inch of hair. The top has maybe and inch. And then I have seven-inch bangs hanging down into my face.
So I get to look like a complete fucking moron as well as get the annoyance of constantly having hair sticking me in the eyeballs. What really sucks is that people are going to think I asked for this haircut.
And you know the absolute worst part? I tipped the asshole that made me look like this. And why? Because in today’s society, tipping is not an extra reward for a job well done. It is expected instead of hoped for. And because I’m a sucker.
So if you’re looking for someone to screw over, just look for the fat guy with a bad haircut and huge bangs.