My Bad Hair Day

An old boss of mine was cutting my hair.  He had a barber’s chair set up in the middle of a store.  Shoppers stared at me as they went by.  One kid stopped to gawk with his finger in his mouth.  I slipped my hand out from under the cape and gave him a little smile and a wave.  When he was done, my boss removed the cape with a flourish, brushed some powder on my neck, and rang me up on an old cash register that he had sitting off to the side, the kind with the numbered cards that pop up in the window and the lever you crank to ring the bill and open the cash drawer.  He charged me twenty bucks, which seemed a little steep.

I stopped in the restroom to inspect my haircut in the mirror, as I often used to do.  It was awful.  A total mess.  It was all patchy and uneven and not even trimmed close and neat the way I like it, just sparse clumps of hair and some sloppy manipulation with a comb.  I would have been better off trimming it myself with the clippers like I normally do.  I was going to have to do that anyway.  What a disappointment.

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4 thoughts on “My Bad Hair Day

  1. Ha, “Barber anxiety.”

    When I was a kid, my mother would take us to this Barber College place where they basically practiced on our hair, and thus the haircuts were cheap. Meanwhile, I have this one little patch on the side of my head where hair has never grown. (Now, I have a big patch on top where hair never grows, but that's neither here nor there.)

    Anyway, every time one of these students cut my hair, they would come across this patch and think that they had inadvertently nicked me too close with the clippers or something. They would call the instructor over and there would be a whole big thing about it. For some reason, I never said a word. I never bothered to explain it to them. I don't know why. Maybe I just hated being there, so screw em'.

    Like

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