Just Even Up The Sides A Bit ...

I got a haircut yesterday, which, in and of itself, is not really blogworthy (though I most certainly have written about far more mundane topics), but it was just a bit different than my normal cosmetological experience, due to the … oh, quirkiness, let’s say … of the person administering it.

Due to shear* laziness, I usually go quite some time between cuts, which results in what some refer to as a goddamn rat’s nest that makes Medusa’s hair look prom-ready bit on the shaggy side when I finally go in.  I also get a pretty short cut, so as to maximize my intercut latency.  Without fail, the person makes one conservative pass at it, perhaps sensing that I prefer a longer ‘do (understandably so, of course, given my appearance upon entering the establishment), and I am left to ask them to make it a bit shorter.

Not so yesterday.

Yesterday’s stylist sat me down, and asked the regular questions about desired length and style, and I gave my regular answers, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.  She then, however, asked if my past stylists used scissors or clippers.  “Scissors,” I responded, assuming that my answer would have some influence on the current cut.  “Okay!” she said.  “We’ll do a number 5 on the side!”

I didn’t know what that meant (outside of certain establishments in Reno, of course), and before I had time to inquire about it, she had grabbed the electric clippers and cut a large swath up the back of my head:

Above:  Agricultural equivalent of her opening salvo.

She proceeded to buzz-cut the rest of the back and around the sides, then mercifully switched to the scissors.  With each snip, she seemed to become more gleeful, making statements like “OH MY GOD THAT LOOKS SO MUCH BETTER!” and “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU LET IT GET THIS LONG!”**  She was extremely vocal about how much she disliked unkempt hair, and while she was otherwise very nice (not to mention pretty dang cute), I was more than a little disturbed that I lived in a society that would allow her to possess sharp objects.

She finally finished her work, and said “What do you think?  I left it a little longer on top than I wanted to, because I thought maybe you liked it a little bit long up there.”  (Her idea of “a little longer” was that I could actually grasp it between two fingers.)  I resisted the urge to say something like “Well, it’ll grow back someday, I guess …” or “My phrenologist will be ecstatic!”  and instead nervously stammered “it’s … it’s … perfect” while being careful not to make any sudden movements.

Because, as they say, discretion is the better part of valor keeping a crazy girl with a razor from cutting you to pieces.

* HA!
** Seriously - she held nothing back in letting me know how trashy I looked before.