A few days ago J got a haircut that went horribly wrong. In an effort to save money -- and ignoring my requests to cut his hair myself (this is where I point out that I'm pretty good with scissors and a comb) -- he went to the nearest Hair Cuttery. Big mistake.
Now I'm not one of those girls who shuns all low-end haircut shops. Supercuts, Great Clips ... call me brave but I've tried all these firsthand out of sheer curiosity and found results to be surprisingly good, not bad. Contrary to popular opinion, I don't think an amazing hair cut -- for men or women -- needs to cost $50 to $100. I've had expensive cuts in this price range that have been worse than $20 ones and made me nauseous at having dropped bank on such a hot mess. (On the flip side when my $50 hair cut turned out fabulously there was no better feeling.) So my disclaimer is that I'm not a hair snob and not all Hair Cutterys suck. But the Hair Cuttery J walked into for a clip recently was downright ghetto, to put it mildly.
I sat near the entrance on a bench and watched him take his seat inside. From the outside everything looked fine. The shop seemed busier than usual, but nothing was out of the ordinary, other than the fact that they made him swipe his card before his haircut, something about them "closing the register soon". Totally suspect. Of course J is a consummate tipper, so naturally he left a 20% tip on his card before even getting the haircut (which kind of negates the whole idea of a tip since it's to reward service, right?) *Smacks face with hand when thinking about it*
Well, J went in looking like Shaggy and 20 minutes later came out looking like "Guile from Street Fighter":
(His words, not mine.) J looked like he wanted to kill someone with the 15-pound hardcover lawbook he'd been lugging around.
"I'm never, ever going back in there," he said through gritted teeth.
"Uh, you look like Krusty the Clown," I responded. What else was I supposed to say?
"The whole time the lady cutting my hair was mumbling things under her breath, like she had better things to do than cut my hair. And look -- SHE GAVE ME A '90s FADE!" he said, turning around and pointing at the bottom of his neck. "I look like Vanilla Ice!"
Try as I might to commiserate there was only one thing I could say: "You do!" I said, doubling over with laughter.
He turned back to face me and seeing how angry he was just made me laugh harder. I mean, if it was a tattoo or something, I'd probably be a bit more sympathetic. But it's hair, people -- it's not like it wasn't going to grow back. Plus, I was getting too much satisfaction from the fact that it appeared J had finally reached his breaking point here on the East Coast. I'd reached mine long ago (I believe it involved an incident with public transportation and me losing it on a subway platform). It was nice to finally be in good company.
The whole way home J was silent, white-knuckled and gripping the steering wheel, mumbling something about how it looked like "someone put a hexagonal hat on [his] head." Needless to say once we got home he spent 10 minutes in front of the bathroom mirror fuming at the atrocity he'd actually tipped for before he placed a hair of scissors in my hand and told me to fix it. Asap. So I fixed as much as I could and though the fade needs a little time to grow out he no longer looks like Krusty the Clown slash Guile slash like he's wearing a hexagon hat. In fact, it hardly looks like ever he got a bad haircut in the first place, thanks to his amazing and talented wife (ahem).
Next time he promises I can cut his hair, but I told him I'd only do it now if I get a 20% tip in advance. (What I didn't tell him was said tip would come in the form of watching a Real Housewives of OC marathon with me, but he'll find that out soon enough, my pretties!) All that matters is standing in the bathroom, the color back in his face, we shook on the deal.
Take What Your Stories Give You
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