Nothing gives me more anxiety than getting a haircut. Just the thought of going to a salon—I mean barber—and having a stranger touch my head while asking me personal questions about my life makes my nerves shoot through the roof. It's the same feeling a wicker chair gets when a circa-2006 Kelly Clarkson takes a seat. TENSE. But sometimes you have to bite the bullet and let Kelly Clarkson sit on your face. The day after my high school graduation was one of those times. I had rocked the same shoulder-length frizzy do since I was twelve years old, and the style had run its course. There was only so much I could do with it. Actually there were only three things I could do with it: wash it, let it air-dry, and pray to God I didn't get lice. My hair was lice's dream habitat. The amount of poof and waves made it practically a tropical getaway for those little fuckers. I'm sure every time I walked by a homeless dude his lice would only WISH they were having an adventure in my twisted, knotted labyrinth of a hairdo. I might not have had girls double-taking when I walked by, but damn it, the lice wanted a motherfucking piece.
So one hot Monday afternoon in June of 2006 I pulled into a shopping center parking lot and stared at the SUPERCUTS sign that was casting a shadow on my car. This was the day. I had prepared myself for this moment for weeks, and I was ready. I took a deep breath, took a bite of a protein cookie— which, let's face it, was just a cookie—and stumbled through the door with fear in my eyes. The woman at the register looked up at me with a welcoming smile and asked what she could do for me. I asked for a haircut. She paused. Awkward silence. Then she said, "Women or men's?" Yep. It was definitely time for a haircut. She walked me over to the station and I looked around, scoping out what the situation was. The situation was pretty clear: these people had NO fucking idea what they were doing and it smelled like El Pollo Loco had farted and locked the doors for two weeks. I was too lazy to find another salon—I mean barber—so I just sat in a stained purple swivel chair and awaited my fate.
Receptionist: Destinee will be with you soon. She's in the back talking to her ex-husband on the phone.
Me: Definitely didn't need all that information, but thank you.
So I sat and flipped through a Spanish version of People magazine from fifteen years ago, thinking, "Wow, I don't know who this Selena chick is but she is DEFINITELY going places!" As I skimmed through the magazine my Razr phone started vibrating and playing Ashlee Simpson's "Pieces of Me." It was my mom calling.
Me: Hey, Mom.
Mom: Did you do it yet?!
Me: No. Still waiting. I think my stylist is in the middle of a custody battle right now.
Mom: Oh! Fun! Are you excited?!
Me: Not really. I'm scared she's gonna make me look like a troll doll.
Mom: Awwwww, but you're MY little troll doll!
Me: Not really the response I was looking for, but thanks, Mom.
Mom: Well, call me when you're done! And email me a picture on your pager! Me: That makes no sense. Mom: Love you!
As I reached for another decade-old magazine my "stylist" walked up to greet me. I put "stylist" in quotes because her cosmetology certificate looked like it was printed on the back of a Denny's placemat. My expectations for this haircut were about the same as when I walk into an Eddie Murphy movie. I know it's going to be bad, but maybe it will give people a few laughs. I like to spread joy even if it's at my expense.
I looked her up and down, and my expectations went from an Eddie Murphy movie to any Adam Sandler film made after 2008. This situation was Grown Ups bad. It looked like she had cut her hair without scissors and had instead chosen to cover her head in peanut butter and raw meat and hang upside down from a tree branch in a dog park. She was wearing one of those shitty Halloween shirts that said "This IS my costume." Did I mention it was June? She had hoop earrings so big I could have hanged myself with them, which I thought would come in handy if the haircut went as horribly as I suspected it would. She took a sip of the world's biggest Starbucks Frappuccino and let out a small uncontainable burp. This was going great.
