Butchered

Yes, this is the worst haircut I have ever received. Yes, I paid for it, too. $16.97. Three of those dollars were a tip, which I normally wouldn’t have given, out of principle, but my girlfriend has made such a big deal about tipping in the past that it’s almost become habit. And it’s not just that the haircut sucks; the whole experience was a total disaster. The woman with the scissors (not a barber, that’s for sure) talked. A lot. About things that I could not have cared less about. No, I don’t care about your teenage sun. No, I’m not interested in your uncle the famous historical writer (it helps if you remember his name, too). No, I really don’t want to hear about the lineage of your family or all the terrible stories your grandfather told about the war. And if you say pitcher instead of picture one more time, I might take this ridiculous smock off and use it to hang you. That might have been a bit harsh, but this haircut is terrible. You should see it. And, just like at the dentist’s, I don’t want you bombarding me with questions about my degree and my career plans and my social life while you are wielding sharp instruments around my face. Please focus on the task at hand and cut my goddamn hair straight. Seriously, what kind of question is what do you want to do with your life? I want to work some shit job every Monday through Friday until I’m too old to do anything fun and watch my relationships with close friends disintegrate as we all grow older and closer to death. Or maybe I just want to have my hair cut decently and in peace.
The reaction to the cut isn’t good:
You look like either a pedophile or a victim of a pedophile.
Oh, great. I’m shaving it immediately.
No, keep it. You look like a little funky monkey, it’s cute.
What? A funky monkey pedophile. That’s just what I had in mind. In fact, the next time I go in to get my hair cut I will tell them. I’d like to look like a pedophiliac monkey, please. Oh, and could you add a little funk too?


True story, unfortunately.