Haircut

OK, so I finally did it and followed the wife's lead from a few years ago. I broke down, finally got my hair all chopped off, and donated it.

This after about three years of hemming and hawing from my Mom, who was not a fan of the locks. Yeah, I had some really minor trims over the years, but haven't had my hair short since our wedding, which was three years ago (this month).

I finally psych myself up to do it and, since we bought a house this year in an unfamiliar area, I did what any stereotypical guy would do when looking for a place to get a haircut:

I sent my wife in to get hers done first so I could gauge if the hair stylist was a complete lunatic or not.

Xteen arrives home a few weeks ago with a haircut that was a little surprising at first, but grew on me fast. I liked the cut and the woman who did it sent Xteen home with a book of hairstyles for me to look at because Xteen said I was considering getting mine cut as well.

We thumbed through the book and I was immediately horrified. Now, I had been interested in getting a rockabilly hairstyle, because I really think it is a cool look and I really hate having the same boring haircut as 99.9% of all the other guys out there. But I didn't find anything in that book that even vaguely resembled a rockabilly style and, not knowing this stylist from Freddy Krueger, I was worried that her idea of rockabilly was to give me the ol' Brian Setzer pomp from circa 1983:

Now, I dig Setzer as much as the next dude, and I might be sexy (though no longer 17), but that ain't the haircut for Dim.

So, Xteen and I started thumbing through the book to see what we could find. It was a horrible display. First of all, even though all of the male models in the book looked present-day, they were all striking these oddly anachronistic poses, mostly while holding cigarettes. Is smoking still cool? I haven't been getting the memos.

Anyway, most of the male models in this book have horrendous haircuts, among other things. The caucasian models all look like surfers, but with the icy glare of a serial killer. They all have these creepy 5 o'clock shadows and are wearing $2,000 suits. With a dangling cigarette in their hand.

The, uh, more ethnic models all look like they should be singing in DeBarge:

Needless to say, every 'do in this book is a "don't", so I decide to go the hair stylist and tell her to do whatever she wants. How bad can she screw that up, right?

So, I get to my appointment and I walk in. I'm immediately nervous, because there are two people in chairs getting worked on. They are of a combined age of about 340 and have naturally blue hair. They are reading the Star and collectively shaking their heads disparagingly while telling each other of the embarrassing exploits of Britney and Lindsay.

In the waiting area is actually someone I recognized from work. She's probably a little younger than me, but she's knitting. I'm in some sort of old age vortex.

Immediately, my back starts hurting, I feel impotent, and my prostate is acting up.

The woman cutting my hair introduces herself to me. She is probably a little bit older than me and what I would call "biker chickish". Nothing wrong with that, or the stud in her nose. She just might have a cool idea in her after all.

The first thing she says to me is:

"Please tell me we're not cutting that off".

Great. I'm having a hard enough time with this as it is and the stylist is so in love with my hair immediately that she doesn't want to cut it. This doesn't bode well.

I tell her who I am and mention that my wife was in a few weeks ago, borrowed the book, etc. She looks at me like a stunned sheep.

"She has red hair...uh, her name is Xteen..."

"Oh yes! She borrowed the book. She said her husband was coming in and he had really long hair."

"Well, that's me."

I tell her I am donating it and she seems down with that. I go get my hair washed.

I have an ear infection and a 60% blockage in my left ear from our awesome vacation from a post ago. My head is currently under water running with the ferocity of Niagara Falls. This is a great time for her chit chat. She sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher:

"Are you an artist or a musician?"

"Umm...neither, actually."

"Does Michelle know you are getting your hair cut?"

"Who's Michelle?"

"Your wife."

"Xteen? Yep, she knows."

"Xteen, right. Now did she tell me she was pregnant?"

I'm not gonna lie. With this, I peed a little in my pants.

"Ummm....no...."

"I'm sure she told me she was pregnant."

"Well, did you talk to her about five minutes ago?"

"No....hmmm. Why did I think she said she was pregnant?"

Ummm...because you think her name is fucking MICHELLE! Maybe MICHELLE is pregnant and you are a lunatic hell bent on turning me into a Stray Cat!!!

I didn't say this of course.

My hair is now soaking wet and because of the length, it feels like I have a grand piano hanging off my scalp. Because I am donating my hair, she has to blow dry it. I end up looking like this:

Only without the lip gloss and the high cheekbones.

OK, just without the high cheekbones. Go screw.

Anway, I think the hair stylist likes this look. But she knows she has to cut it anyway. After all, every rose has its thorn.

At this point, the hairstylist informs everyone in the joint that I have lovely hair and that I am donating it. This act of selflessness blows away the bluehairs. They want me to marry their great, great grandchildren. I blush.

The hair stylist proceeds to braid my hair, ask me if I am ready, and then snips away. The last two steps, by the way, are exactly what happens when you undergo a vasectomy. So I have been told.

The snippage results not only in a braid of hair that resembles an opposum that just got hit by a Peterbilt, but also in me possessing what is called a "man-bob":

Coincidentally enough, I too apply easily and dry in 30 minutes. Ahem.

Anyway, the stylist says, "This actually could work. Let me try with this."

I'm too busy gagging to protest.

The hair style gets progressively man-bobbier until she recognizes it is unsalvagable and then proclaims that she is going to have to revert to her "original idea", which I hope isn't some Sanjaya thing.

She starts snipping and I then fill her in on my desire for a rockabilly style even though it wouldn't work. She stops mid-snip.

"Oohhh," she says. "I could try to give you an Elvis Costello".

She qualifies this by informing me: "He's cool, you know."

"Yeah, I know who Elvis is. I like his stuff."

I just don't want to look like him. Even if he is boinking Diana Krall.

So, she does some styling and decides to take a Gallup Poll in the middle of the joint. Asking if the people there like the Elvis or a different style. She manipulated my hair with her hand (sounds dirty. it isn't.) to give them the preview.

All of the blue hairs, the prematurely old knitter, the other hairstylist, in addition to Abe Vigoda (who came out of nowhere), and the ghost of George Burns all voted against the Costello. Sorry Elvis. As a consolation prize, you get to boink Diana Krall, you son of a bitch.

Anyway, that's how it ended. Now, onto the pics. A couple of self-portraits so you can appreciate my length. Heh.

Before:

After:

So, with that, I paid my $12. The stylist asked me if I liked it. I told her I did (I actually really do...she did a kick-ass job). Then she says:

"Do you think Michelle will like it?"

I reply, "I think so. I hope the surprise isn't too much for her though."

I open the door and walk out saying:

"She's pregnant, you know."

- Dim.