From long experience, I should have known better. I should have sensed the foreboding, the atmosphere of doom that surrounded me the moment I walked through the door. I should have known, long before you picked up the scissors, how badly you were going to mangle me.
I want my hair back, goddammit!
I called ahead for an appointment with A***, my regular hair-person. She’s not spectacular, but I don’t need spectacular. I just need a regular, guy-type haircut. She does it well. Nice shampooer, too. And I needed her, just now, I needed her bad. She makes me feel almost good-looking when I walk out of there. And lately, I’ve been trying for that. So, I called. Made an appointment. No problem.
Then I got there, six hours later, and somehow, she was booked. That’s when I should have walked out. I realized, too late, that the only one there who had the time to cut my hair was… this guy. Late 80’s heavy-metal haircut, huge gut hanging over the waistband of worn jeans, sweatstained polo shirt… I don’t know what I was thinking.
A long time ago, in Georgia, I learned a valuable lesson about life. Don’t let an Oriental woman named Peaches cut your hair. Tonight, I learned another, equally valuable one. Don’t let anyone who part-times as a bouncer at a blues bar cut your hair.
So, to the ogre with the shears, this rant…
In which universe does the phrase “I’m trying to let it grow out” translate to “Shear me like a Buddhist sheep?” How did you manage to mishear “Just clean it up a little bit” as “I want to look like Moe from the Stooges?” Where the hell did you get your training, Bob’s House O’ Butchery? You miserable fucknugget, I don’t need to spend the next three weeks frightening small children and passers-by with the chunks of my scalp you managed to expose. I look like the nice men in white cut my hair to keep me from pulling it all out. I look like some freak military experiment to see if they could actually come up with a haircut for new recruits that would make them look stupider than the current standard issue. I look almost as idiotic as you, you pus-sucking, self-felching assmuffin. The best possible use for your barbers’ tools would be to stuff them whole into all of your orifices, turn them on, let them run for a while, then short them out, you whorelicking ratpenis. May you die the Death of a Thousand Papercuts, with Lemon Juice, for the horror you have inflicted upon humanity, and may the afterlife hold nothing for you but reliving the agonies you have inflicted upon your miserable victims. You fartgulping, pitsniffing, phlegmlicking turdburger.
And now that it’s late enough that I won’t run into too many people while doing my little Quasimodo imitation, I have to go out and get some hair gel. I hate hair gel. I despise it. But if I slick my hair back, I just look like a deranged lunatic, instead of a retarded deranged lunatic who probably has an axe on him somewhere.
