Supercuts hairstylists are a different breed

Be honest, does this haircut make me look fugly?

I don’t know about you but when I get a haircut I am on edge. It is an exciting yet scary time. Why? Well, for starters, some of the hair stylists I have encountered are crazy as shithouse rats. I know I am generalizing here, but I even had a normal hair stylist validate my point and totally agree with me. So, if you are one of the few normal, sane hairstylists in the population you are excluded.

I hate to dump on an entire work force, especially when they perform a vital service and, well, they carry the equivalent of a lethal weapon in their hands at all times. Now over the past week you all have seen how I have been known to mistreat my hair, but that is in the past. I am now a once-a-month haircut kind of fella, and until it starts falling out in mass quantities or fails to grow much anymore, I will stick with this schedule.

I am a friendly guy as most of you might realize by reading my posts, so naturally when I go to get my hair cut I begin by saying “hello” and sitting down, then proceed to small talk to feel the stylist out. My last haircut notwithstanding, I had a string of six or seven psychopaths cutting my hair. Once, I managed to get a twentysomething girl whose “old man” ran up thousands of dollars in Internet and phone-sex porn on HER card. She kicked him out and now he is harassing her. I realize it is not her fault, and while I can see why she left him, I don’t understand why she had to take it out on my poor, defenseless hair follicles. During the porn story she began to jab and poke and use very abrupt movements with her scissors. When it was all said and done, I looked like an idiot. I looked a lot like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber. Seriously, I could have placed a cereal bowl on my noggin and managed better myself.

The next nutter was a white gay man who wore one of those colorful African tribal shirts. I was chatting it up and all was cool until I made a fatal error: I mentioned how I was glad smoking was banned in a lot of restaurants nowadays. His gay nostrils flared, his gay voice shrieked, and his gay spittle flew all over me and the back of my head.

“It’s people like YOU who give smokers all the grief! It’s people like YOU who should be banned from restaurants – not us!” I kid you not. Needless to say, it was quiet and nerve-racking the rest of the cut. To top it off, I failed to tip him, which no doubt sent him into a rage afterwards. I had to go to another place to fix the mess he created with my hair.

I have had stylists start to cry hysterically. I have had them hit on me. I have had them so upset they literally turn different colors.

I guess it is human nature to talk to strangers and all, but for the life of me I cannot figure out why people blabber on ad nauseum about horrible stories from their personal lives. I hate to sound snobby or elitist, but all I want it an effen haircut. I should learn to just keep my mouth shut and get it over with. I mean, I don’t have that much hair! Minus the maniacal interruptions, it could only take 5-7 minutes to cut my hair. But, just like the stylists who tell me about their child custody battles or boyfriends who gave them herpes, I am a talker, and, I suppose for good or for bad, I will continue to do so.