That's one bad haircut

I have a lot of hair. Not a lot of hair like Bon Jovi, a lot of hair like Buckwheat. It's incredibly thick and I hate it more than I hate terrorism (extreme heat is third). So one of my few pet-peeves is when this thick mane of mine has sprouted like a mushroom cloud of bad styling, and I have to walk around looking like Mr. Kotter (sans mustache, which would make the whole thing OK.)

I share all of this to set the framework for how desperate times can get. A few years ago I had planned to get it cut on a weekend. Three weekends later I couldn't use a pillow anymore and I was in dire straits. Finally, finally, I decided that I could wait no longer. So on a Sunday I hunted down a barber.

Problem with that is the fact that barbers are like God in that they kinda lay low on Sundays. But no need to worry, dear reader, for a bright shining salon was in fact open. And as I saw the inviting neon "Best Cuts" sign I knew I was going to be OK. They offered the best cuts!

So I sat down as my large female barber finished a spirited conversation with a colleague. They were apparently talking about the woman's financial advisor because all I could make out was, "And if he thinks I'm gonna put up with that #$@% forever he is out of his mother *$%^&#$ mind! Taking my money!"

So for starters the woman was giving me a "hate cut."

Things started off badly as she moved my head around as if there were a cord somewhere she could pull to make different sounds come out of me. My only salvation was that she seemingly would not be brining scissors into the equation (a wise decision on my part when I said, "oh just use a number three all over...just take it all off")

As she turned me in the chair I was literally face deep into her considerable stomach as she started a new dialouge with her co-worker on that gosh darn financial investor. Grappling for air I leaned back, only for her to lean in to emphasize a point.

And then...well then it happened. Freed from the girth of my buxom barber I was able to breath again, this turned out to be a mixed blessing. As she worked on my side burns I...well there is no other way to put this than to say I learned in no uncertain terms that my barber had recently used the ladies room and that she must have been in a hurry as she did not allot the proper time for handwashing.

At this point I was frozen. The only thing that moved were my little hands which trembled as my mind wrapped its way around what was going on here.

The horrible thing ended in a few minutes and I walked to my car in silence. As I got in the car I said, "I don't want to talk about it.." to no one at all. I was in shock and I literally wanted to remove my head and put it in a dish washer.

Upon arriving home I walked past two roommates and went directly to the bathroom. I took what I can only describe from the movies as a "rape shower" where I sat with my legs folded up to my chest letting the boiling water try to cleanse me.

I cried myself to sleep that night. And for two weeks after that. Have I gotten over what I consider my worst haircut, you ask? I don't know, do Vietnam veterans ever truly get over the horrors they saw? Yea, I don't think so either.

BDF