I had some free time yesterday so I decided I'd go get a haircut. They recently opened up a Great Clips near my apartment. It's one of those walk-right-in-and-one-of-our-forty-something-stylists-with-no-self-worth-will-cut-your-hair places. The same kind of place where good hair goes to die.
Most people are too afraid of what will happen to their hair to even walk into a place like Great Clips. It's so easy to cut my hair, however, that I trusted even the failed stylists could handle the job. All I wanted the stylist to do was trim my hair a little.
I walked in and went to the register. The woman there asked for my name, phone number, and address. This pisses me off. What fucking difference does it make what my name is? I want you to cut my hair, not open a checking account for me.
After I make a copy of my social security card and give a blood sample, another woman comes up and brings me back to her station. I sit in her chair and she introduces herself. I look around. There is hair on the floor. Apparently, Great Clips employs the eyeless to sweep. I decide that I'll bleach my shoes when I get home.
The woman who is cutting my hair is short, so she lowers the chair I'm sitting on as far as it will go. This is about as comfortable as trying to open a bottle with your dick. If I leave my feet flat on the floor my knees will be up near my eyebrows. Instead, I extend my legs forward and cross my ankles. The woman sees the position and steps back.
Stylist - Wow. You've really got the "Relax you're at Great Clips" thing down.
She points to a large banner in the back of the shop that reads, you guessed it, "Relax, You're at Great Clips!"
I tell her that the marketing department at Great Clips must be spot on.
She asks me what that means. I don't know whether I'm supposed to tell her what a marketing department is, explain the meaning of the expression spot on, or uproot the chair I'm sitting in and beat her for being so stupid.
I decide to ignore her by pretending I have a text message.
She begins talking about my hair. She asks me what products I use. She tells me what products she uses. She explains that she will cut my hair in such a way that it will stand better.
I ask her to leave an inch on the top, and pretend I have another text message.
She begins to cut. While she is doing so, she is staring at my head with an intensity that some brain surgeons don't even have. I actually thought that she was trying to cut my hair with her mind.
A man comes in the door and ruins her concentration. She asks him what he wants. Apparently, he had gotten his hair cut earlier. The man explains he went home and his wife said his hair was uneven. I don't know what was worse, that his hair was actually not uneven (a stylist came over and combed his hair for him so that he could see this) or that his wife thought making his hair even would somehow fix his appearance. Let me explain, this man had the style of a middle school shop teacher. His clothes looked like they came from Home Depot and he had gold framed bifocals over his soulless eyes. The best stylist in the world could have given this douchebag a haircut and he'd still look like he should be caged.
The woman finishes up cutting my hair and tells me she's going to put a new product in my hair. It's called taffy and will prevent my hair from clumping. She put some taffy on her hand and held it in front of me. It had the color and texture of clown semen. I got home and scrubbed my head for twenty minutes and I couldn't get that shit out.
Even as I'm writing this, I have remnants of clown semen in my hair. Clown semen and a mediocre haircut. What an awesome day. I'm off to get another shower.
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