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PAMELA ANDERSON
PARIS HILTON
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by Jeremy, staff writer
3/15/05

DP Columns / Jeremy The Loner

Bad Haircut

"Went down to the mall one sad day
'Cause I needed a haircut in a bad way
But to my surprise
That barber didn't just take a little off the sides, no.
And when she was finally done
I wished I'd had a gun.
See I looked in the mirror and almost fainted
'Cause my head looked like something Picasso painted.
I had a bad haircut.
Bad haircut.
B-b-b-bad haircut.
Bad haircut."

-Wally Pleasant (www.wallypleasant.com)

During my current fiscal crisis, I've been forced to forgo on many of life's little luxuries. You know, things like going to the theatre to see a movie and ordering out for pizza. Buying groceries. Paying the rent. Oh, and one other thing--getting haircuts.

My hair had only started to become an issue fairly recently, right about when I started going on job interviews again. It's always a good thing to look professional when you go to an interview, but that was getting harder and harder for me to pull off. I hadn't had a haircut since December, you see, and my curly locks were starting to grow to alarming proportions. I had enough excess hair to sculpt a fucking second head out of it. And honestly, it's hard to look "professional" when you look like one of the cast members from "Welcome Back, Kotter." So, yesterday morning I decided to bite the bullet and have my "white man fro" hacked off. I had an interview scheduled that afternoon and I wanted to look good for it. (Well, if not "good," then at least human.) It was a decision I would soon live to regret.

A new salon was having a grand opening not far from where I live, and they were offering what seemed to me like a phenomenal deal... $3 haircuts! Now, I should mention that the word "salon" usually scares me, because it conjures up images of gay men with hip hairdos and chicks in white pants trying to sell me overpriced hair gel. I'm strictly a "barber shop" kind of guy normally. I want an elderly man cutting my hair, muttering profanities under his breath with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. "I have no business at a fucking salon," I told myself.

Still, though... only three bucks for a haircut, man. Dig it.

Just over an hour later, my haircut was underway. My stylist turned out to be a fairly attractive chick with long black hair and an accent, who surveyed the unruly mess on my skull and made the same two comments that I always hear in this situation;

1) "My, you have such thick, lovely hair!"
TRANSLATION: "Fucking hell, this is gonna be a pain in the ass to deal with..."

2) "My, you've got quite a bit of gray for such a young guy!"
TRANSLATION: "You're dying."

Heaving a gusty sigh, I glanced at the mob scene that had gathered in the waiting room. It was exactly the type of crowd I would expect to see at a $3 haircut sale--lots of old people, white trash mothers and obnoxious kids. Meanwhile, I wasn't paying much attention to what was going on as far as my haircut was concerned. I should have been, but I wasn't. As the clippers made their rounds across my noggin, I sat calm in the knowledge that this woman knew what she was doing. And I remained calm, until I distinctly heard my stylist say "oops!" over the buzz of the clippers.

Oops? What the fuck is "oops?"

I turned and glanced at my image in the mirror, horrified at the sight of the disaster area that had once been my head. The sides of my head just above my ears had been buzzed practically down to the skin. The top of my head was a mass of bristling hairs which resembled a worn out scrub brush. My stylist, knowing full well that she had fucked up, tried to smooth things over by flirting with me and making small talk. But I wasn't buying it--I just sat there motionless, not saying a word. It was like I was powerless to stop the horror movie that was taking place on top of my poor, abused scalp.

"I probably shouldn't have used zee clippers on zee top," she said apologetically. "But I'll use zee scissors zee next time you come in." I almost busted out laughing when she said that. I mean, did she honestly think there was going to be a "next time" after how badly she had butchered me? I knew already that I was NEVER coming back--even if they put up a sign outside that said "FREE HAIRCUTS AND FREE BLOWJOBS!" Meanwhile, she was piling gel and all kinds of shit in my hair, in a vain attempt to make it look somewhat presentable. It wasn't helping.

Minutes later, it was over. As I fumbled through my pockets for my money, I kept my head low, trying to hide my shame from the poor souls still waiting for their haircuts. Most of them were polite enough to pretend they didn't notice, but the small kids seemed fascinated--like I was a fucking circus freak or something. But surprisingly enough, none of them fled the scene screaming in horror. So I'm assuming they were either really cheap or really poor... I'm not sure which. The stylist stood smiling by the cash register, obviously hoping for a tip. She must have been smoking crack if she thought I was going to reward her for making me look even goofier than I already did. The only "tip" I would even THINK of offering her would be this; "FIND A NEW PROFESSION, YOU STUPID BITCH!"

When I got to my car, I looked in my rearview mirror to assess the damage. I had gone in the salon with a charmingly unruly mop of curls... and I had come out looking like my head had been ravaged by angry locusts. I actually gave a sad chuckle when I saw how horrible I looked, because the irony of it all struck me as being vaguely humorous. I had come to the salon looking for a bargain, but even at three bucks I had vastly overpaid. And to think that I had only wanted to look good for my interview that afternoon and...

Oh fuck. My interview. Later that afternoon.

I knew I was in for an uphill battle if I wanted to look halfway decent, especially since my hair looked like it had been trimmed using a weed whacker. Who in their right mind would hire me now? I looked like I should be using my head to scrub toilets!

Well, it took about an hour of spaying and blow drying, but I managed to upgrade the condition of my hair from "really awful" to merely "pretty bad." Hell, I was actually feeling pretty good about myself (and the interview) until I got home later that night. As soon as I walked in the door, my roommate glanced at me, did a double take and practically fell out of his chair laughing. "You've got to let me get a picture of this!" he said, fumbling for his digital camera. But I flatly refused. I wasn't about to immortalize this painful incident by capturing it on camera. Instead, I'll just sit alone in the apartment with the blinds drawn, waiting for my hair to grow and return to the unruly mess it has always been. That's all I can do... wait. Just like anybody who's had to deal with the horrors of a truly BAD haircut...

The moral of the story? A $3 haircut is NEVER a good idea, no matter how broke you are.
Trust me... I had to learn that lesson the hard way.

-JTL

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