2/21/2008 4:44 PM
Last night, I actually paid for one of the worst haircuts I've ever had. Yes, I am being overly dramatic, but it really IS a bad haircut. I mean, even when I used to cut my hair myself, chopping indiscriminately at fuzzy ends and clipper cutting the sides so as to have a "cool" looking mullet do (I was young once and pulled it off quite nicely, if I do say so myself), I still did better than this lady who took a whack at it, literally, yesterday. And leave it to me to feel sorry for her, telling her that it looks nice, that she did a good job, and then giving her a tip on top of it. It's just that she spent so much time cutting that I didn't know what else to do. Complain? Give her suggestions for improvement? Have her finish what she started? No. All I could do was throw on my cap and leave smiling, trying to mask my disgust and resentment, vowing to never have my hair cut by her again.
I knew it was a bad sign when, before she even looked at my hair, she started making small talk in some indistinguishable foreign accent about how much she liked my watch. You're a hairdresser; there is no need to notice and make conversation about my accessories. I thought to myself, she's trying to butter me up. Either she wants a good tip, or she has very few clients. I now believe the latter to be the case. When she finally focused on my hair, she ran her fingers through it, inspecting the hairline, the cowlicks, the varying lengths. I explained what I wanted simply, short on the sides and back, and leave the top long, just trim it a little bit. Good grief, I don't have a lot of hair as it is, so I didn't consider these to be inadequate directions. She said, oh yes, that would be perfect, that cut would suit my face marvelously, although I didn't ask for her opinion, nor wanted it. Just follow my instructions and cut my hair! That's when I noticed her dyed reddish-auburn hair, which didn't look "bad" per say, but it did look a little "off", clumsy, dented, choppy, frizzled, for lack of better words to describe the indescribable.
I should have gotten up right then, said, oops, I completely forgot that I have dinner plans, I'll have to come back another day. But I didn't, mostly because I REALLY needed a haircut. I mean, the hair on the back of my neck could be pulled into pigtails, it had gotten so out of control. It was absolutely time to be neatened up, and, you know, a new, nice, fresh haircut can make you feel like a new man. So I calmed my fears, closed my eyes, took a deep breath and trusted.
Out came the scissors, another bad sign, for me anyway, because when I say that I want it short on the sides and back, I mean that I want it SHORT and EVEN, like only clippers can do. It's my fault that I didn't say something then, but in my defense, I have had my hair cut before where the hairdresser didn't use clippers and ended up doing an amazing job getting it short and even, so again I just trusted her. Carefully, she pulled out a stretch of hair and cut it SO SLOWLY that it was like she was cutting a line drawn on a piece of paper. Every cut she made was slow and seeming so precise, like she was an artist working on a sculpture. Her face was tense, lips pursed, eyes squinting, and she dropped small talk altogether for silent concentration. She pulled my head to the side, pushed my head down, pulled my head up, directed every position of my head for her cutting expertise. Then she flapped at my ears with her comb, and brushed off hair into my lap. From her satisfied expression, I knew she was done with the sides and back. Yes, it did look a tad shorter, in some places, although I could still see some hair sticking out looking as though it had been completely missed. I thought to myself, surely she hasn't overlooked the unevenness. She is so intense; maybe she is going to go back over it all. Needless to say, I kept quiet.
At that moment, my hair didn't look horrible. It was longer on the top, shorter, albeit uneven, on the sides and back. I could have lived with it. But then she began to work on the top, pushing my head down so she could face it directly! Have you ever? Personally, I have never had anyone cut my hair head-on like that before. But, I thought, maybe that's just as good a way, what do I know? Suddenly, she began chopping, and huge chunks of hair began cascading into my lap, big chunks of too long hair, the length almost an inch. I wanted to see what she was doing, but she held my head down, as if drowning me under water, and continued to prune the top of my head. As my lap filled with my brown and some white, gray (yes, it's TRUE!) hair, my face flushed with red annoyance and deep concern. Still, she had already started and had my head somewhat pinned down, so I could do nothing but let her continue and watch more and more fall onto the black salon cape covering me.
When I looked up, I think she saw the shock in my eyes, because she immediately grabbed some pomade and began trying to style it, pushing hair this way and that, pulling up the front and swirling her hand around over the top. I didn't want to believe the mirror. This crazy lady had cut my hair shorter on the top than the sides and back! Okay, so the top is even, but it is SHORTER than the sides and back! WHO in the world styles his hair that way on purpose other than the monks you see in pictures who shave a circle on the tops of their heads? What's worse, she was done, finished. Her masterpiece was complete, and she wasn't going to go back over anything. "There you go, all cleaned up and looking much better," she said, "You know, I think you look more like yourself." Uh, what? She removed the cape, as well as the towel around my neck, letting all the cut hair fall onto my sweater and down my back. I thought, this lady KNOWS she gave me a bad haircut and is too flustered to even pull out a neck duster. She just wants me out of here ASAP! Noticing hair all over me, she grabbed the hair dryer and started blowing the hair off of me. "Yes, well, it's nice, looks good, good job, thanks," I lied, getting up, fearful of her touching my head again. "Don't you want to see the back," she asked pulling out a mirror, and I looked. "Now, what you need to do is dry the sides forward like this; see how that looks, and then at the crown, just swirl it around so it will lay down nicely. See?" I wanted to roll my eyes and tell her to 'brush' off. I have been styling my hair since I was a kid, really, so I think I know exactly what to do and what I think looks nice.
I don't know what gave me away, maybe I did roll my eyes, although I don't think so. Maybe I'm not very good at masking my feelings, everything shows up right in my eyes and on my face. Whatever it was, I could tell that she became a little angry and annoyed with me. She frowned deeply, looked me directly in the eyes, and left me with the parting words you never want to hear from your hairdresser, "Really, you know, it's ONLY hair."
MY only hair, indeed.
