To be perfectly honest, I never thought I would ever become one of those people who must go to the hair salon to get their hair cut. I have always been the guy who grew his hair out to "cousin it" levels and then maybe get a haircut if I was in the neighborhood. Maybe. Probably. Most likely not. But, I have become one of those people who must have their hair a certain way, or else no one should look at me ever.
The thought of having every single one of my academic peers silently judge me, (They do judge me! I know it! They're always watching me!) is enough for me to regularly get a haircut. Now, this may seem completely insane, but... I'm pretty sure the people at Fantastic Sam's HATE MY GUTS. While I have no quote-on-quote "real" evidence, to prove this theory, I do have their behavior. Whenever I walk in, I feel like a peacock just strolled in with three machetes and a lit fire-cracker. Every single one of the hair stylist's heads turn for at least two seconds to see the magnificent beast that is, me.
Now in those two seconds, they have sized me up, they know I don't actually want to be there, and that I would much rather just jump into a wood chipper and hope that the only thing cut was my hair. All of them then look back at each other, all collectively deciding that they do not want to deal with me as a customer. I walk up to the front desk to tell her what I want (Which mind you, I have no idea if that's actually how I'm supposed to do it.) I always say...
Okay well maybe not exactly, but that's the gist of it. I then proceed to sit down and stare into space as I feel that is the only thing interesting to look at besides the hair magazines. (And I respect myself just enough to not look at them and keep my manhood intact.) A few moments later a woman who is probably having just as bad of a time as me walks up and says that I should come with her. (Come to think of it, in any other situation, I probably should've shouted "STRANGER DANGER!" and ran away.) I pull out my phone and show her the picture of me before I looked like a walking mop. She glances at the photo and then sits me down. Then she'll ask me if "one" was used on the side of my hair in the picture, I always say yes. Most of the time hoping that "one" isn't salon talk for "You have now given me your consent to drill a hole through your head. (It almost never happens.) But I sit down and the lady who just wants to go home tries desperately to make small talk. But I never let it go anywhere.
Eventually, after painful itches that I'm too polite to address, and the woman yanking on my hair to the point of near tears. I am released back into the wild, with hairs shorter than they were originally, and with an even greater fear of hair stylists.
