On Saturday after the car inspection, I went for a haircut. Now normally I would not consider this exactly "blogworthy" and after I tell the whole story you'll see why I think it might be.
I've long since given up any hopes of being a Movie Star or the World's sexiest man like Hugh Jackman but occasionally I need to get my haircut like everyone else. Otherwise I look like Tom Hanks in Castaway.
I've also given up all hope of finding a regular barber or stylist. Besides when the "bay has met the ocean" you really have very little need for "styling" per se.
I have settled into a very standardized haircut. I simply ask for a number 2 on the sides and blend it in with what ever is left on top and because I've standardized on this, I can pretty much go to any Hair Cuttery or Mastercuts in the country and get the same haircut over and over in not think a thing of it.
I went to the Mall for a Haircut. Now thirty years ago using the words Mall and Haircut in the same sentence would have frightened me but given the current state of affairs, it works out just fine. It's fast and if I need to pick something up at the Mall, that's just a bonus. Usually.
Because I consider myself an easy haircut, this also allows me to take the next "stylist" available at the Master Cuts in the Mall instead of asking for someone. On Saturday, fate cycled me around to "Jenna". Jenna had never cut my hair before so I gave her the speech "Number two on the sides, blend it in with what's left".
Jenna was young, as most of the girls in the place are, and I usually don't have much to say to my stylist. This time, I thought I would take things a little differently and basically chatted up a storm with Jenna. Jenna is the process of moving to Mount Holly. Mount Holly has a 3% sales tax while the rest of New Jersey has 7% Mount Holly has an Art Museum yada yada and the haircut is done.
The haircut is $16.95 and I leave Jenna a 20.
I really have no idea that I have just received the worst haircut evvvha. In fact I have no idea until someone at work tells me ON MONDAY.
Yes, that's right. I went to work on Monday looking like this.
Notice the slight Kid'n Play action going on near the top in the circles. Jenna obviously had a difficult time with the whole "blend it in" thing and I think I could have gotten a better haircut at Rikers Island. For free.
So I come home from work on Monday about as self conscience as I can be for 50 year old bald guy. I'm looking in the rear view mirror the whole time and thinking "you are an idiot".
Then I come home to my lovely wife.
I point out that I have received the worst haircut known to man and I get very little response. In fact we just head on downstairs to make dinner without saying much of anything about the haircut except "you can fix that".
After dinner, yes, after sitting at the dinner table, eating and talking for nearly an hour, I'm standing by the kitchen counter and she nearly falls on the floor paralyzed in laughter, pointing at my head, doubled over.
You... Look.... Like.... A Rooster.
Yes, that's right. This is what 19.5 years of marriage is all about. 51 hours after I came home looking like I got my hair caught in a lawnmower, she noticed.
She offered to fix my hair, but that just sounded like something that would end badly so I decided to go back to the Mall and to Mastercuts.
On the way over there it occurs to my that I have no idea what I am going to say. How does one "return" a haircut? It's not like they can put back the way it was and besides I don't even have a receipt. (Mental note: in the future, always pay for a haircut with a credit card). I don't know, maybe they can fix it.
I arrive at the Mastercuts and of course none of the people that worked Saturday are there now. If fact there are no actual customers. (Mental note 2: Go for a haircut on Monday night)(But maybe a different place). I go right up to the counter and ask for the manager.
Right away, Monday's 18 year old "stylist" is defensive. "The Manager isn't here" I'm told. So I go right into my little story. "I was here on Saturday and I'm really not happy with this" I say, point to the place where the bowl should have gone so that Jenna could cut around it.
Just then, an oriental male stylist volunteered, stepped up and said "Come sit down". He explains that there isn't much he can do except take the number 2 all over my hair and basically to a razor cut. I tell him it's fine and better than the rooster look. He also trims my eyebrows.
So oriental barber finishes up and I'm vacillating between "do I tip him?" and "I'll never ever be back". Meanwhile, the girls in the back of the shop are just whispering to each other. Of course they want to know who did this to me since it is the most hideous haircut they have ever seen. One asks me my name and gets the sign in sheet book from Saturday. Now it's not like my full name is there and so I'm thinking "how can they find it" since all I wrote done was "Mike" at 3:45 PM. They don't even ask me the time that I was in on Saturday.
In the end I decide not to tip oriental barber, I thank him politely and leave.