Hey, OneChance, have you tried to abusive but entertaining curmudgeon that does haircuts and straight-razor shaves in the Pike Place market (one of the lower levels)? He seems like he’s do a good flattop.
I got an unexpectedly short haircut a few weeks ago that made me want hide away from everyone for a couple of months, but it turns out that everyone (except husband) likes it very much (and he has gotten used to it and longer minds it).
Hey, even if you go to some snazzy dazzy salon, no guarantee of a good haircut. I won a gift certificate a few years back to Jose Eber (you know the guy with the ponytail and wears a cowboy hat with a long feather on all of the talk shows for those makeovers). He cut my hair short, short. I hated it. Others thought it looked good, but my opinion is the one that matters.
I have not had a haircut in years except for allowing my mom to trim the ends. I am much happier.
Once again, I take solace in the number of other posters who have eyed the paper bags at the grocery store wistfully, wishing that they were, in fact, a fashion option. Thanks for the support and the laughs, all.
This afternoon, I decided that something had to be done about the situation, so I called up my regular hair-care-person, and made an appointment to see what she could do to fix things. I walked into the salon, and who do I see but the evil weilder of ruthless shears, what’s his face. I raise an eyebrow in his direction, further complicating the mess that has become my head, and he retreated back into the shadows of the establishment. I almost expected him to hiss at me.
A***, whose regular customer I have been for months, sat me down, talked over options, pointed out what made the haircut look so amazingly ridiculous on me, and fixed what she could. Mostly, she took down the Bozo wings that jutted out over my ears, for which I am eternally grateful. Now, at least, when I walk, I don’t hear that infernal circus music. And throughout this process, the Hellspawned Hairdresser looked on from a remote corner of the shop, scowling.
So, now I feel a little better; at least it’ll grow out in some coherent pattern. But, I have a mini-rant left in me for Mr. Scissorpaws…
Hey, muttbuggerer. You screwed up my hair. Perhaps not the end of the world, I admit. But you’ve made my life rougher for the next few days, lowered my already-low self-image, and taken a bite out of my bravado. Whether you thought this was an adequate hair cut or not, if I came in to get it fixed, I obviously don’t like it. Also, if you think this is an adequate hair cut, you might want to consider a career as personal groomer to Yahoo Serious. But cowering in a corner doesn’t speak well for either your customer service skills, or your worth as a human. You made a mistake; adults admit to mistakes, learn from them, and sometimes even apologize. You, on the other hand, did your best Bela Lugosi impression. If you can’t take criticism of your work, you’re in the wrong job. Perhaps you’re too sensitive to be a hairdresser, huh?
I wasn’t even going to call you a yakbanging fishfelcher.
Ya know, it figures, I’m driving a Doper wild with desire, and it’s a friggin’ guy. Although, seeing his picture on his webpage, what a hottie! WL’s a dead ringer for Brad Pitt 
I made the mistake of going in to a SuperCuts[sup]TM[/sup] a few years ago when my regular barber was busy.
Rather than the crochety tobacco-chewin old coots I was accustomed to, this “salon” employed a bevy of nubile lasses that looked fresh outta beauty school. “Cool,” I thought at the prospect of nineteen-year-old boobage pressing lightly against the back of my neck.
They didn’t have Field & Stream, which should have been the only sign I needed.
I left with one sideburn. The Marlboro Light-puffing trollop shaved one all the way off after I instructed her to “clean them up,” then ignored the other one completely.
I’ve since come to the conclusion that the quality of the haircut has in inverse relationship with the boinkability of the stylist.