You know how some people hate going to the dentist? Well I'm the same way with hair stylists and barbers. I hate them. I fear them. I loathe them. I've never had a good haircut in my life. I've tried low-end places like Cost Cutters, high-end places that charge $27 for a simple men's haircut, and even places full of young punk rock types who seem to understand what young people want. All of them have made me look horrible.
When I got my hair cut on Saturday, I was so nervous that I even brought a photo along. I spent nearly five minutes discussing exactly what I was looking for, warning the stylist not to cut it too short. "Make my hair this long," I said:
Yeah, I know. I couldn't find a less pretentious hairstyle photo on the internet. Try yourself. You won't find one.
The stylist pointed out that the man in the photo had straight hair, while mine was wavy/curly. I said I was aware of that, but the photo was only to show the length I was looking for. The stylist shrugged and said, "Okay."
Now granted, I don't look like the model in the photo. I'm not as attractive as him, and therefore I wasn't expecting to look anything like him. I was, however, expecting to have hair the same length as him. That's not too difficult of a request, is it reader? Shorten it up, but leave me enough hair so I can have some options. Unfortunately, when my haircut was done, I looked like I was being shipped to Iraq in the morning.
The stylist cut my hair right to the scalp, so short that I can't comb it, spike it up, or even brush it to the side. All I can do is sit here and wait for this horrible haircut to grow out. Don't ask me to post a photo of it, because I won't. It looks fucking ridiculous. Imagine George Michael in his short creepy hair phase:
This is what my hair looks like now. Except I have a tall face, which means my forehead is even larger than Michael's. I could go to the Special Olympics tomorrow, and they'd let me in as a competitor because I have a fucking gigantic forehead. With tall faces, the idea is to hide the forehead, not highlight it. It's not rocket science, it's common sense.
My hair used to be embarrassing because it was too long. Now it's embarrassing because it's too short. I can't even begin to explain my frustration. Every morning I wake up, look in the mirror, and get angry. Every night when I brush my teeth before bed, I look in the mirror and get angry. A bad haircut affects my entire mood. Right now I'd rather look like I used to look:
Seriously, how hard is it to cut hair? A stylist has one job, and one job only: TO LISTEN. It's not difficult. I hand them a photo of a person, and they make my hair look remotely like that person's hair. It doesn't have to be exact, it just has to be in the same ballpark. My haircut wasn't even in the same part of town as the ballpark. My haircut was on the other side of town watching a George Michael concert.
The stylist shaved me nearly bald, reader. He cut my hair down to a half-inch all around, even on top. I can't move my hair. I can't comb my hair. I can't do anything with my hair except let it sit there and look stupid. All I can do is wear a hat for the next month or two. And I fucking hate hats.
So I did the only thing I could do: I screamed at the stylist. If I'm going to pay $19 for a haircut (when I could've put a #4 attachment on my razor at home and shaved my own goddamn head), I'm going to get some sadistic enjoyment out of it, damn it. As I told the stylist, "The only way I'm going to stop screaming at you is if you let me cut your hair like this." He declined my offer.
I'm officially done with stylists and barbers. I will never pay for a haircut again. I'm cutting my own hair from now on. Do you know why? Because I'm the only person I can count on to listen. I'm the only person who I'm sure isn't just going through the motions, trying to get as many customers and tips as possible each day. Over the past 27 years, so-called "professionals" have only made me miserable. No more.
My hair may look stupid when I cut it myself, but it couldn't possibly look as dumb as I do now. Goodbye, haircutters. Burn in hell, die in a fire, fuck your mother. I'm never going to fear you again.
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