So I finally got a haircut. It had to be done. My hair was becoming a point of conversation. The traditional hello and goodbye were no longer the starts and ends of a conversation. Instead, it was, “is that a dead smussed tarantula on your head?” My mother even said, “Get a haircut. You look like Side Show Bob.” I’ve tried everything with this hair. I’ve tried combing it to the side. No go. I’ve tried slicking it back. No go. I slicked it back and all of my friends started calling me Michael Douglas, Ray Liotta, Lorenzo Llamas, Bruce Wayne, Wolverine, and a slew of others. This led to me walking into a place to get my haircut. As soon as I walked in, the lady behind the counter says, “What do you need?” I smiled and said, “A table for two.” There was no response. A cold dead stare looked back at me. Might as well have started a staring contest with a statue. She’d dealt with my kind before. You could cut the tension with a knife. I said, “….a haircut. I…need….a…um…haircut.” The fact she asked me what I need in the first place blows my mind. What the hell do the people walking into a hair salon need? Insurance? For example, If I was walking into a shoe store, I think the general consensus is that I’m going to be buying shoes. I sit down in the propped up chair. She tells me “Not that one. This one.” I get up and sit in a different chair.
Looking at my frazzled hair in the mirror, I expected the worst. “What do you have in here?” she asks. Mortified I say, “I’ve been using pomade and some other gel.” While walking away, she trails off while saying, “What were you thinking?” Seconds later I’m upside down with my head in a giant bowl at a painful inverted angle as she shampoos my hair. Imagine her viciously rummaging through her hands through my hair. “Oh yeah you’re a dirty boy aren’t you? You sick filthy boy. You deserve to be punished.” She didn’t say that, but it would have been funny. I explain to her that I like to keep it long, but it has just become hard to manage. I’d like to just take a little bit off the top. Time felt like years as I stared at myself in the mirror attempting to make small talk. After about 10 minutes and zero conversation, the experience was over. Then she threw some type of paste in my hair. Within seconds I felt like a rockstar. What she had done was amazing. I never even thought to do this I told her. She tells me it’s the paste that she used. You can do anything with it. It wasn’t a hard sell. I bought the paste. The next day, I put it in my hair and try to replicate what she did yesterday. 30 minutes and using half the bottle of paste later, I stare at a smaller dead smushed tarantula on my head.