Barbara’s tales of potential hairdressing disasters was harrowing enough to get me thinking about some of my own heady escapades.
For many years I went to the old tyme barber shop down the street and enjoyed it. It was like a little bit of small town friendliness in the big city. Usually, I avoid that kind of crap but I somehow fell into an easy routine with the proprietor, a little small talk, the usual shorter on the sides, longer on the top and everyone went home happy.
This guy was older and wore huge glasses but I was sure that this was just a failure to progress with style rather than a serious vision issue. My opinion changed the day he put the wrong attachment on the clippers and took a swipe right down the middle of my head starting at the front and working back.
He’d cut me to the quick. He said ‘oh…I guess I’ll have to do it all that way to even it out’. I gulped and said ‘okay’ and went into shock for the next two days. Luckily for me, the escaped mental patient look was ‘in’ for the 3 weeks or so that it took for my hair to really start growing out again.
From there, I went to a new guy who was personable and very capable. After a few very satisfactory cuts and small talk that wasn’t too tedious, he died of stomach cancer.
That led me to my ice fishing, blouse wearing guy who may or may not have degenerative sight issues and then to another new guy who I was not impressed with.
Before booking a flight to try out Bubs’ guy, I made one last attempt to reconcile with the industry. I went to a new place near work, looked the guy square in the mirror and told him if he didn’t do a good job, I wouldn’t tip him, I wouldn’t be back and I’d make sure everyone in a 20 mile radius knew that it was his fault I looked like crap. Somehow, it worked. Let’s hope the fear keeps him consistent.
Now, can anyone tell me why hairdressers always seem to have the shittiest looking hair?
