Balls. Balls Balls Balls.
This frass, started with a haircut.
I decided that it was high time to trim back the Baby P rakish mop (That Mom and Dora seem to love so much.) I got some shite from a friend last night, and since I'm going to a b'day celebre' w/a beautiful young lady who happened to work for a gazillion years at Aveda, I needed to have it a wee bit shorter. Et war zu gross. (Too long. Winging.)
Disclaimer: I'm pretty "guy-ish" when it comes to haircuts. Most folks know I don't salon it (except when it needs dyed or something ridiculously drastic. Money well spent folks, unless you wanna look like Rainbow Brite) Since I can't justify spending the $, I'm just as happy to go to a local clipper chain and get a trim. And for as much frass as I've placed into the trauma of getting my haircut, I've always been pretty satisfied.
So, when I popped into said chain, I should have obeyed my Spider sense when the little bit...I mean girl (Yes, she was 12) asked for my info and told me to have a seat.
You all know this girl. The one from High School who was pretty cute, fake tanned, hung with the really cool girls and did shots of Peach Schnapps at parties, and always ALWAYS had that look on her face that said "I do not want to be here" (Whereever "here" was at the moment)
So when she sat me down in the chair and asked what I wanted, I tried to be pretty easy going about the whole smear- "About an inch to an inch and a quarter all around please. Like it is now, only a little shorter". (I'm still staying pretty positive and polite)
"'Kay" was her only response. I could tell I wouldn't be getting a chatty Cathy. And she was silent, dead silent, through the entire process unless asking "Did you want it straight in the back" or "Is this enough?" No smiles. No "Are you from around here?" No "Big plans for the weekend?" Nothing.
Here is my deal: Haircuts are kinda (if you're me) like, ohhhh sexual encounters. If you go to a Professional stylist at a Salon, you get pretty much the sexual equivalent of an all night boinkfest. And when you leave, your toes are curled...you've got an achey belly, scratches on your back, and your underpants are a little sticky. It was just that good. You know? 'Cause you get witty conversation, a scalp massage (To me, this can be like sex...but I'm easy) a fantastic 'do by someone who probably paid a lot to learn their craft and when you walk out it's like WOW! That was positively orgasmic. I can't WAIT to go back to get "coiffed" again. Hair fuckingly good.
Now, you can even have a good sexual experience when you go to a chain. Seriously. It's like a one night stand, only it's still pretty good. You got it out of your system. You run into the chain at a party and you're like "Hey" and they are like "Hey" and you say "You wanna ditch this place and go back to my apartment?" and the chains says "Ok"...You get your cut, and you walk out feeling pretty good. You might even have a spring in your step, and they didn't do anything really drastic. (This happened to Baby P, circa 1993, when Yolanda at my BP barber cut off the mullet. It was shortly thereafter the Sno-Daze queen and I went to Prom. The haircut? Was that good...no lie)
THIS haircut...hoooooo lemme tell ya. This one was the "Regretter". You got drunk. Spent the night. Woke up and said.."Oh, fuck. What did I do?" You know...the haircut where you are in the middle of it thinking "Man...this is just NOT doing anything for me...I could give a better haircut than this!" The type of haircut where they spend alllll their time on the TOP of it, without spending any time underneath on the sensitive bits...or the corona. The type where you wanna say "Um, I think I need to go to the bathroom" grab your underpants, and sprint out the door. Yeah. That-Bad.
So when she was finished and I was in the midst of the vain post-coital(haircut) exercise of looking at the end result (And seriously? How funny would that be if you got up after sex and just sort of...stared at yourself in the mirror? We make ugly enough faces while in the actual act...I mean, what are you? Patrick Bateman in "American Psycho"?) Well when she was finished she said "D'you want gel or something?" (Something...btw)
"Yeah, a little gel would be great". She sort of...patted...some gel on the top of my head, which was the equivalent of having your crotch swatted in lieu of a hand job.
I left. Feeling cheated. Vulnerable. And no better for having participated. I should have stayed at home with my loved ones.
So yeah. We signal the end of the "Rakish Mop"era and I've been able to sort of fix it into this hipster/spikey/trendy 'do, but I swear it hasn't been this short since 2003.
(sighs)
It looks a little bit like this. Except not as buff
Or this.
No comments:
Post a Comment