Having my hair cut
Six months after a grade four all over and it has come to the point where it's long enough to annoy me, but the weather isn't warm enough to make me think that shaving it all off is a good idea yet. So I make my annual pilgrimage to a haridressers. Barber shops don't really work for me because I don't want a grade two short back and sides and that is (I speak from experience) all they're really capabable of.
So I try and find a hardressers who are willing to cut 'long' hair, but aren't poncy enough to leave me with a trendy cut that requires 'products' to be used and leaves me looking like (more of) a cock. This is the first bit I hate - finding one. Once I've made the decision to go, I just want to go somewhere, have it cut, then go home. There is a half decent one in town that is a good balance of not quite barber shop, not quite haridressers, but it's not open. So I go to the next one down the road that is slightly poncy, but empty. 'You need an appointment' says the bored looking receptionist, who looks at me (as they all do) with those 'you're not quite trendy enough to be coming here anyway' eyes. Bitch.
So onwards and I eventually pluck up enough courage to go into a not-so-poncy looking one and am told I have to come back in an hour. Fine. One hour later I go back and have to wait 20 minutes before I am asked to take a seat. The next bit I really hate - looking in the mirror, telling them what I want done with it while they comb it and generally analyze its structure, thickness, colour etc. etc. I just don't like talking about how I 'want to look'. I don't 'want to look' like anything really - can't you just make it not look quite so stupid?
And, to be fair, he does. But not without the obligotary, strained conversation. 'You're quiet' he says, after 5 minutes of peaceful silence. Regular readers will know of my general dislike of 'People' and appreciate my desire to not have forced, aimless conversation. But he's asked me a direct question, so what do I say? 'Yes, I am quiet. It's because I don't really want to know if you had a good Christmas, what you did for New Year or how shit it is to be back at work. Can't you just cut my hair, take my money and let me fuck off?'
So I try and find a hardressers who are willing to cut 'long' hair, but aren't poncy enough to leave me with a trendy cut that requires 'products' to be used and leaves me looking like (more of) a cock. This is the first bit I hate - finding one. Once I've made the decision to go, I just want to go somewhere, have it cut, then go home. There is a half decent one in town that is a good balance of not quite barber shop, not quite haridressers, but it's not open. So I go to the next one down the road that is slightly poncy, but empty. 'You need an appointment' says the bored looking receptionist, who looks at me (as they all do) with those 'you're not quite trendy enough to be coming here anyway' eyes. Bitch.
So onwards and I eventually pluck up enough courage to go into a not-so-poncy looking one and am told I have to come back in an hour. Fine. One hour later I go back and have to wait 20 minutes before I am asked to take a seat. The next bit I really hate - looking in the mirror, telling them what I want done with it while they comb it and generally analyze its structure, thickness, colour etc. etc. I just don't like talking about how I 'want to look'. I don't 'want to look' like anything really - can't you just make it not look quite so stupid?
And, to be fair, he does. But not without the obligotary, strained conversation. 'You're quiet' he says, after 5 minutes of peaceful silence. Regular readers will know of my general dislike of 'People' and appreciate my desire to not have forced, aimless conversation. But he's asked me a direct question, so what do I say? 'Yes, I am quiet. It's because I don't really want to know if you had a good Christmas, what you did for New Year or how shit it is to be back at work. Can't you just cut my hair, take my money and let me fuck off?'
posted by Percy Herbert at
12:39 pm
2 Comments:
Yes. I hear all of that loud and clear. The forced conversation is by far the worst thing. Barber shops might be limited, but at least if you want to sit in silence, they respect your wishes! Oh, the pain of inane banter. But I've learnt not to piss someone off with sharp implement in their hands within easy reach of my jugular. It was people like us that tipped Sweeny Todd over the edge, y'know...
By
Del, at 1:25 pm
I spent years coping with problem hair (not where it was, more what it did).
I saw Trainspotting in 1996, shaved my head every day for 6 months, couldn't cope with seeing some pasty fat skinhead everytime I walked past a shop window, and got a pair of clippers.
The rest is history.
No more probelm hair.
No more concern over receding hairline.
No more post-cut trauma when it assumes it's natural state.
No more inane conversation with morons with sharpened implements.
No more pouring money down the drain.
Hello self-esteem, personal empowerment, and years of jokes about a) convicts and b) homosexuals.
I rest my case.
By
The Great Blandini, at 3:08 pm
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