I have been told that whenever documenting an event, it is important to state your own POV before hand, this way, the reader is aware of any bias the writer may have.
So therefore, it is appropriate for me to inform you that I am not a big fan of the barbers/ hair stylists. I am not sure where this dislike came from or when it started.
My first memory of it is in 1988, I decided to grow a mullet, the haircut that’s ‘business at the front, but party at the back (http://www.wridefamily.com/wp-content/mullet.jpg). I told my mom that this was because I wanted to look like Riggs (Mel Gibson) from lethal weapon, but in actual fact I hated going to the barbers. I decided against the mullet after weeks of torment at school, instead of looking like Riggs I actually resembled keith chegwin (from cheggars plays pop).
My second major attempt at rebellion came some years later when home hair fashioned kits become popular. My mom, with the best intentions stated she would cut my hair. With the thrill off finally escaping the terror of the unforgiving scissors I naively agreed. After twenty minutes she was done, and my expectations of looking like johny bravo were dashed, I looked like a survivor from a concentration camp.
…With these two events I finally accepted that the barbers were a necessary evil.
For twelve years I have lived with this belief, until today when I met a person who I am going to respectfully name clipper–armed-torturous-evil-bitch.
I arrived at the stylists about 2ish, there was a small queue so I decided to read the witty and insightful ‘true’ stories in FHM magazine. On a side note, I should highlight that until now I believed witty stories were clever and humorous anecdotes. FHM defines ‘witty’ stories as tales involving drunken one night stands which generally include the phrases “I did her even though she was a minger” and “she looked like a hippo so I did her from behind”, not my definition of wit but to each there own, anywho, I digress.
I am second in line, I watch as a skinny man with a highlighted ostentatious haircut walks past me and sits in the chair. I overhear him asking for “a trim on the top, faded at the sides with tufts at the back” It seemed a bit complicated to me but in my day a short back and sides with a streak of bril cream was the height of fashion. 8 minutes later I watched the same man leave with the kind of facial expression reserved for funerals and victims of date rape. I look up at his hair and “a trim on the top, faded at the sides with tufts at the back” seemed to resemble a grade 3 all over.
Next, I hear a word that will forever send chills down my spine, “Next”! With dread I stood up and starting stepping towards the stylist. I see a short pot bellied ‘lady’ with greasy hair and some kind of rare form of gout present on both cheeks. I look around to see if any other customers wants to go up before me, but sadly no such luck. One even mustered a sympathetic smile; he must have known what kind of horror was waiting in store for me.
I sit down, and start to wonder why this person chose the vocation of hair dressing; She looks really pissed, not drunk, but just really unhappy. She is more interested in reading txts from her phone than the customer (me), which for me is the opposite of professional. Without taking her eyes of the phone she grunts “what do you want” her tone was that of a disgruntled teenager who has been summoned to the office by a teacher. With a genuine quizzical confusion I whimper “haircut?”, she looks at me, unimpressed.
Her expression, that of a frown, “what do you usually ‘av?” I answer “Clippered at the sides , bit longer on top, longer in the middle, like a baby Mohawk”
She puts the apron around my throat and with a garrotting action nearly chokes me .
She then orders me to “go down”. “Pardon?”, I ask, what does she want, is she asking me to philash her? Lye on the floor? BEG for mercy?
(Me):When you say go down?
(Clipper–armed-torturous-evil-bitch );“You are tall, I need to reach the top of your ‘ead, go down!”
Did she want my spinal column to shrink, maybe Have a few vertebrae removed? I scooch forward so my back is really curved. I feel like I am going to get a kyphosed posture, Really I am feeling genuine discomfort at this point. Then I realise it’s a pneumatic chair, she can press the peddle and it will go down instantly. Why does she hate me so much? Bitch!
She then springs into action, she is clipping, cutting, aggressively combing. She has a crazy look in her eyes and seem at this point to resemble a frenzied serial killer rather than a stylist. I am filled, at this point with a trifector of unpleasant emotions; fear that she is gonna hack off my ears, depression due to my back pain, and a rekindled fear of barbers/stylists.
She is furious yet silent, I look in the mirror and catch her icy stare through narrowed eyes, if ever I had a nemesis, she is it. I am like batman, she is joker, I am doctor who, she is Davros the darlick. I am Orvil she is cuddles the monkey. She grabs a water squirter, still looking at me through cold lifeless slits of eyes. She starts spraying the back of my head, then randomly moves to my side and squirts that shit in my eye, I want to say WTF??!?!?!!? Whats wrong with you, crazy? Want to disarm her and give her a taste of her own medicine. But I m stricken with fear, she has sharp objects in her hands and she clearly isn’t afraid to use them. I sit there still like Jeff goldblum in Jurassic park trying not to be noticed by the T-REX.
The rest of the event continues in silence, fuelled with equal mixes of her hate and my totally obedience.
She grabs a mirror shows me the back of my head, looks at me as if wanting my gratitude. I want to say “impressive, no lasting physical scars”, but she is still armed and I want to leave, I manage to raise an eyebrow, give her a wry smile and say “well done”
I pay, I leave and I want to cry!
I take one final look at my head, I remember saying “baby Mohawk”, apparently she thought “fuck you customer, I cut what I want!”
To be honest, she didn’t do a bad job, aside from me asking for a mini Mohawk and getting a buzz cut.
I end on a diplomatic note, I am going to say that her customer service, manners, ability to take direction were not my cup of tea . . . . This is because I don’t like pieces of shit in my cup of tea!!!
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