Letting My Freak Flag Fly
I'm very tentative when it comes to decisions that affect my personal appearance. Sure, I talk a big game, but when it comes to decision time I generally change my mind just in time. Usually I'll say stuff like, "I'm not going to shave at all until Christmas," or "I'm going to let my hair grow until the summer and then get it cut short." Then my neck hair gets scraggly and I get annoyed with grooming my long hair but I'm too non-committal to cut it all off.
The reason I'm usually tentative is that while I get annoyed by certain aspects of my appearance, I simultaneously find them endearing. There's something I like about being able to pass my fingers through my long hair or make little adjustments to it all the time. I'm the kind of guy who hates getting rid of stuff, and my hair is no different.
This was not the case Monday. Monday, I thought, "I'm getting a haircut tomorrow. I'm getting it really short." And I did.
Another thing that stops me from getting haircuts often is that I hate them purely on principle. Why pay someone to take something away from you? I mean, I can understand paying a doctor to remove your tumor; that's a life-threatening situation. Unless you have hair that is plotting to suffocate you in your sleep, haircuts are not a necessity. In fact, long hair is more of a necessity than short hair (especially in the winter months). People make fun of my body hair all the time, but I'm as close to cold-blooded as any person you'll meet.
Sometimes people just tell me to get it cut for free by one of my friends. But while I hate haircuts on principle, I don't trust an amateur with something that people make a living off of. It's like hiring replacement players for your baseball team--you might win a few games, but you're not going to compete for the World Series. I also don't trust barbers. Barbers generally just go through the motions. While they may be good at what they do, all they're doing is chopping your hair off your head and onto their tile floor. I'm also afraid of old Italian men because of possible connections with the mob.
This is why I go to a hair "stylist" or whatever. The only people I trust cutting my hair are professional women and gay men. They know what looks good. Old Italian men do not know what looks good. They always try to part my hair so I look like a schoolboy from the '50s. Usually they don't even ask where I want the part. I'm not comfortable talking to old men, either. I can handle talking to women, and probably gay men, though I've never gotten my hair cut by one.
Another reason I prefer women to men is that I'd feel rather awkward if a man complimented my hair. I like the comfort I get from the lady who cuts my hair when she fawns over my hair. It's like a cheaper form of prostitution.
But the most important reason I go to a hair stylist is so I can get my hair washed. There's nothing more comforting (next to maybe a professional massage, which I've never had) than feeling some strange lady's hands going through your hair while hot water pours over your head. If I had the choice between getting my hair washed and anything else in the world, I'd choose getting my hair washed. Except for sex and massages, probably.
Yesterday, I messed up. I took a shower before I got my haircut. I mean, I had to, since I'd just gotten home from work. But I didn't dry it well enough, and by the time I got to Klippers, it was still a bit damp. The girl at the front desk asked if I wanted my hair washed. "Yes," I said while trying not to jump out of my shoes with excitement. Alas, when I got my head down into the sink, the hair dresser asked if I'd already washed it, and I affirmed her suspicion. But she still wet it down for me, which was okay.
Ever since that hot wetdown, my head has been cold. I want my hair back.
The reason I'm usually tentative is that while I get annoyed by certain aspects of my appearance, I simultaneously find them endearing. There's something I like about being able to pass my fingers through my long hair or make little adjustments to it all the time. I'm the kind of guy who hates getting rid of stuff, and my hair is no different.
This was not the case Monday. Monday, I thought, "I'm getting a haircut tomorrow. I'm getting it really short." And I did.
Another thing that stops me from getting haircuts often is that I hate them purely on principle. Why pay someone to take something away from you? I mean, I can understand paying a doctor to remove your tumor; that's a life-threatening situation. Unless you have hair that is plotting to suffocate you in your sleep, haircuts are not a necessity. In fact, long hair is more of a necessity than short hair (especially in the winter months). People make fun of my body hair all the time, but I'm as close to cold-blooded as any person you'll meet.
Sometimes people just tell me to get it cut for free by one of my friends. But while I hate haircuts on principle, I don't trust an amateur with something that people make a living off of. It's like hiring replacement players for your baseball team--you might win a few games, but you're not going to compete for the World Series. I also don't trust barbers. Barbers generally just go through the motions. While they may be good at what they do, all they're doing is chopping your hair off your head and onto their tile floor. I'm also afraid of old Italian men because of possible connections with the mob.
This is why I go to a hair "stylist" or whatever. The only people I trust cutting my hair are professional women and gay men. They know what looks good. Old Italian men do not know what looks good. They always try to part my hair so I look like a schoolboy from the '50s. Usually they don't even ask where I want the part. I'm not comfortable talking to old men, either. I can handle talking to women, and probably gay men, though I've never gotten my hair cut by one.
Another reason I prefer women to men is that I'd feel rather awkward if a man complimented my hair. I like the comfort I get from the lady who cuts my hair when she fawns over my hair. It's like a cheaper form of prostitution.
But the most important reason I go to a hair stylist is so I can get my hair washed. There's nothing more comforting (next to maybe a professional massage, which I've never had) than feeling some strange lady's hands going through your hair while hot water pours over your head. If I had the choice between getting my hair washed and anything else in the world, I'd choose getting my hair washed. Except for sex and massages, probably.
Yesterday, I messed up. I took a shower before I got my haircut. I mean, I had to, since I'd just gotten home from work. But I didn't dry it well enough, and by the time I got to Klippers, it was still a bit damp. The girl at the front desk asked if I wanted my hair washed. "Yes," I said while trying not to jump out of my shoes with excitement. Alas, when I got my head down into the sink, the hair dresser asked if I'd already washed it, and I affirmed her suspicion. But she still wet it down for me, which was okay.
Ever since that hot wetdown, my head has been cold. I want my hair back.
posted by Kevin A. Doran at 9:37 AM
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