Haircuts

Haircuts are the bane of my existence. Unless I go bald, which isn’t exactly the route I’d like to go, I’m gonna have to get one every two or three months for the rest of my fucking life. I hate them so much that I always put it off until I have this horrendous mop of hair that covers my eyes; since my hair gets curly at certain lengths, wind and sweat cause me to get these forward curled bangs in the front with a fro pluming behind. I always wonder why people stare at me sometimes at the skate-park or bus stop (look, it’s often windy at the bus-stop), and then I get home or arrive at work and look in the mirror. After a few embarrassing encounters with my own “do” I finally throw in the towel and consider getting a haircut. En-route, I get these horrible visions of the ghosts of haircuts' past; my track record for a decent haircut is probably 1 out of 3, so you can imagine the fear that ensues as I arrive at Premium Clips with my fingers crossed. People have advised me to shell out $40-$60 bucks and get a hipster haircut somewhere, and honestly I’m such a cheapskate, that I’d rather roll the dice, and deal with the panic-attacks and fear associated, which makes my bitching null and void I guess (and the stylist would probably still fuck it up, but I’d look like Mugatu instead of Private Ryan). Usually it’s always the same situation that occurs which totally screws everything up. You tell them not to cut the sides too short or even short at all, and they take out the fucking clippers, fake like they are gonna cut the back (which is perfectly reasonable), and go straight for the sides (I think this a famous tactic used by low-end hair stylists, who probably learned the trade against their will in the armed forces, or following rehab). The other tactic is to just turn you around, so you can’t see yourself directly in the mirror, and then you can’t object to whatever is happening to your hair, because you can’t see it. Another negative that absolutely blows about haircuts, is having to talk to a 45 year old lady about your job or what you had for lunch. For a little while, when I got a talkative stylist, I’d just start making up shit about my life, just to have a little fun with procuring pointless lies. Nothing too outlandish: just make up another persona, that somewhat mirrors my life but isn’t me. Instead of being from Los Angeles, I’m now from Los Alamos. Instead of my current job, I’m now the manager of a fitness supply store, and although I really had a salad for lunch, fuck it, I’d tell them I had Pho. Stupid shit like that. One time this totally backfired on me, mid haircut, as the lady asked me where I was from (after I told her that my son was having his fourth birthday party tomorrow and I wanted to look good to impress his friend’s moms. That lie in itself was a huge mistake, as it is highly doubtful from my apperance that I have any attributes that would be considered fatherly). I told her I was from Seattle, and coincidentally, she actually was from Seattle, specifically from Maple Leaf. So I was totally fucked, having never been to Seattle, when she asked me what neighborhood I was from. Not knowing even one neighborhood in Seattle, I guess I could have replied Maple Leaf, which was safe, since she kind of paved the route with that one. Instead I told her, after pausing and thinking for 30 seconds, that I couldn’t remember (which illustrates my own failure to think on my toes), and then I sat there with her and shared this eerie silence for the next 10 minutes, while she gave me one of the worst haircuts of my life.
Alan Hackshaw – The Sound Of Speed
Cheech and Chong - Earache in my Eye