Getting a haircut is one of those things that can either go incredibly well or incredibly poorly. I’ve never pulled a hairdresser up mid-cut for doing a shitty job either, it’s just too fucking awkward. The end result of not saying something is willingly paying someone money (often a significant amount of your money) to make you look like an out-patient from a mental institute. I mean, the amount that guys have to shell out for haircuts is getting pretty crazy, but it’s downright criminal for girls. It’s not unusual for a cut-and-colour (or whatever the fuck they’re calling it these days) to cost upwards of $200. Mental.

I remember when I was growing up, I had the bright idea of getting my mousey brunette hair dyed blonde (not just blonde tips either, I’m talking roots & all). I had the notion that I’d end up looking like some sort of bronzed surf-God and would walk down the street with the swagger of a young Robert Redford, full of piss & vinegar, giving people the pistols as I went. However, all the dye job did was make me look like a six foot four baby (I was in grade 9 or 10 at the time, I think, so the baby look wasn’t really en-vogue). I ended up shaving my head completely a few days later and looked like a ghostly Dennis Rodman for a few more weeks until the dye grew out completely and I shaved the fucker again.

I think I’d paid someone $60 for the privilege of looking like a retard. Great.

I got a haircut today. I fucking hate the whole haircut process, which generally means I end up looking like a shaggy dog before I finally drag myself back in to get another chop. It was one of those awkward ‘first-off’ haircuts where you go to a new hairdresser for the first time and you make excuses about why you haven’t been there before. The hairdresser is especially on-edge, as they know that their actions at that first meeting could either net them a new client or blow their chances of future business completely. Because of this, they’re generally on their best behaviour.

It didn’t start well; the seat for the wash basin that they massage your hair in wasn’t low enough for my ridiculous torso, so I ended up doubled over in some sort of weird reverse brace position for five excruciating minutes in order to get my head shampooed in the wash-bowl (by the way, nothing feels more strange than having your hair washed while the rest of you stays dry – it’s unnatural).

Of course, the hairdresser then latched onto my height as a topic of conversation for the remainder of the haircut, with pearlers like,

“So what’s it like being that tall?”

How the fuck do you even answer that? It’s not as if I can compare it to when I was a midget, can I?

Good haircut though… and only $30. Fuck yeah!

/end communication