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The Great Haircutting Incident of 2016

So, earlier this summer, I got brave and cut all my hair off.
Now, mind you, this may or may not be ground breaking news, but when you chop 4 inches off your hair, all over your head-not just the ends- and you feel like you just lost 15 pounds and Cousin Itt is lying on the floor of the salon, it's kind of a big deal.
Of course, the best thing to me and my low maintenance self was the fact that once out of the shower, I could pretty much run a towel over it, slap some mousse in it, a couple of spritzes of spray gel, and I was done.
Bing. Bang. Boom.
But, such as it is, and with my thick hair, the cut lasted about 30 seconds and soon I was back to pinning it up out of my face with clips I'd had since the dawn of time-well, ok, since my early 20s.
Yeah, ok-that IS the dawn of time.
So a few weeks ago, I decided it was time to trim it up and make it pretty again. Now, they say that if you really want your haircut to turn out right, bring a picture of the cut you want and show it to the stylist. I mean, c'mon, isn't that why they have all those hairstyle books? So you can point to one and say "I want that!" and then you get to go home and figure out how to style the damn thing all by yourself???
Fortunately I had a gratuitous cheeseball selfie that I had taken the day after it was cut, with all the bells and whistles of the gel and mousse and......yeah, ok, it was a decent shot of what I wanted my hair to look like again. I showed it to the stylist, and he was nine kinds of excited. It was like the Genie from Aladdin: "OOOOH! I like it! Muy Macho!"
Yeah. We'll get to the "Muy Macho!" part in a second.
So, the stylist is gleefully cutting away, and chatting me up one side and down the other, and he's really getting excited with the amount of hair I have. For some reason, the thickness of my hair sometimes astounds people-lets just say I rarely have to use volumizer and curlers are not exactly my friend, unless they are wielded by anyone else but me that possesses some type of styling experience-namely my sister, who managed to make me into a glamour girl for my company Christmas party instead of Little Orphan Annie's long lost stepchild.
After a bit, he hands me a mirror and tells me to check and see if I like it. This is where things begin to go...south, if you will...
It wasn't quite as short as I wanted it, and, adding in the fact that my hair grows like a weed and I get super lazy about going to the "salon"-I mean, hello? I go to a place that rhymes with "Duper Putts". How much effort do you think I put into my hair??
I tell him to take a little bit more off the length.
Big mistake. Huge.
A few minutes later, I start to notice...something is a bit...amiss. And I'm trying really hard not to start hyperventilating in the chair, while Edward Scissorhands is showing off his new techniques he obviously learned under the direction of Sweeny Todd. I politely ask for a mirror, look at the back of my head...and find out to my horror, that I could now possibly pull off a 50s 'do if I wanted to.
In the style of Buddy Holly-not Peggy Sue.
I sigh as if my soul is leaving my body, and I instantly think of my friend, "She Who Loves the 80s", and the time she saw my picture on my ID-one of the first times I had cut my hair all off-and she warned me that I was never to cut my hair that short, ever, ever again. Under penalty of death.
Yeah, well, guess who's hair was shorter than that now?
"Is everything ok, love?" the stylist asks. No. everything is not ok. I am about to go home looking like the son my father never had, and you want to know if everything is ok? And don't call me "love".
"Just go on and finish it." I say, and try really, really hard not to toss the mirror onto the counter, thus shattering it into 18 million pieces and ensuring me I would have bad luck for the next millenium, not mention my somewhat non-existant dating life, but did I really expect a haircut to change that for the greater good, anyway?
But, I digress.
The stylist then adds further insult to injury by shaving my neck, along wih creating what now appear to be my new mini sideburns, while I begin contemplating how much makeup I'm going to have to put on to make sure I don't accidentally get called "sir" at the register at work. I then wonder when I all of a sudden became a Neanderthalic cavewoman, because now the stylist is shaving the lower part of my neck and appears to be headed for my shoulders. Apparently I also somehow instantly became covered in unwanted body hair, which is something the last guy I went out on a date with, "He Who I Am Kind of Sort of Dating" forgot to mention, God bless him.
Fortunately, after a really bad experience of wearing a baseball cap a little too soon (two weeks later) and having the guy at Wing Stop look at me weird when I said my name, buying what seemed to be massive amounts of mousse, spray gel and hairspray, and having a coworker call me "dude" for about a month, things have finally returned to their somewhat normal state, which is actually a relief.
Even my idea of normal.


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