I got a haircut the other day. While seemingly mundane, this is a big deal for me. I hate hair cuts. I don't like thinking about my hair, what it looks like, what it looks like to other people, or what's fashionable or stylish, or god forbid, what the difference is between the two. Not to say that these topics are of no interest to me, it's that I end up not liking the resulting thoughts that follow. I would love to have a good haircut, be stylish -and- fashionable, and look good to others and myself.
This is not how I feel. Usually, I feel cheated.
Not only do I feel ridiculous with a haircut that is too short/too floppy/uneven/unflattering, but I have to shell out some cash to have it look that way. I've resorted recently to cutting my own hair, with an electric razor, a mirror, some bravado and a little whiskey. I am not trained in such things, so my results vary. At least I don't have to pay for the surprise, and you gotta love hats.
So, the other day I got a haircut. By a friend of my roommate, who -is- trained in such things, who is gay, and who is a drag queen. While a strange list of accolades, they usually spell out good chances when it comes to cosmotology. He did it for a little bit of weed, some beer, and leftovers and got to work with his really expensive set of scissors and some flare.
I hate it.
I usually wait about three days to pass judgement on things like this, but it seriously looks like he got bored after finishing the right side of my head and then just made snipping sounds with his scissors next to my left ear for a little while. Just a tip: when finishing something of this nature, so personal and semi-permanent, do -not- describe the look as "fun." That just sounds like you're not even trying.
It looks like I'm going to finish it off myself and get my hat ready. Oh, well. At least I didn't pay for it.
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