I needed a haircut, and having no idea where I should go, I went to the place in Wal-Mart (Smart Cuts, or something like that). I should say that my philosophy about my hair is: if I have to comb it, it’s too damn long (it also doesn’t look as grey when it’s short).
So I walked in and signed the sheet. I cruised around the store and found a peeler, bought it, and went back. Three minutes later, I was sitting in the chair.
“I’m real easy,” I said, “a half-inch all over. Tapered in the back.”
I knew I was in trouble when she picked up those damn scissors. Hello, have you ever heard of clippers? What is it with women haircritters and scissors?
Against my better judgment, I didn’t say anything. I should have, but I didn’t. So she starts with the fingers-scissors thing. Fifteen minutes later, she picked up a comb (if she’d used the clippers, she’d be done).
“Would you like it longer on top?” she asked.
“No, thank you, a half-inch all over,” I said. Deja vu? Didn’t I say this once?
“Are you sure? I could leave more on top and we could style it.”
Now *this* is exactly why I prefer going to a barbershop. No bullshit, none of this pussified “style” crap. You go in and get a haircut. But women just can’t seem to help wanting to turn you into some kind of a pussy.
“Let’s try it,” she said. I bit my tongue. She was an ugly thing, and I was sure she was thin skinned. So stupidly, I said nothing.
Ten minutes later, I looked like an escapee from Queer Eye. I had what vaguely looked like a little mop dog on top of my head, and was just getting ready to tell her to cut it off when she picked up a bottle of blue gooey shit.
“What’s that?”
“Styling gel!” She was excited. Unfortunately, so was I.
“No, no, no, no, no! Cut it off. All of it! A half-inch on top!”
Do I have a manicure? Do I look like a crotch-shaving women’s-movie-watching metrosexual? What is the problem here? Do women not understand the concept of haircut? Why do they want me to look like Ryan Seacrest?
“But then you can’t style it,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“Or you can’t comb it,” she added.
“That’s why I came in here!” I said, now seriously pissed off. “Just cut it off.”
So she did. What should have taken maybe fifteen minutes had taken forty. It’s still a bit “blown” looking on top, but most of it’s gone.
I’m going to find a barbershop. I’ve got to before I say something rude.
