Originally posted 11/10/2009
It's happened to everyone of us, to men and women alike. An injustice we probably have experienced more than once in our lives. It's regrettable. It's embarrassing. It makes you want to hide, lie to your friends and even take a sick day.
What is this injustice?
The bad haircut!
We make the appointment or walk-in on a whim. We take a seat in a chair similar to the chair at the dentist's office. We are at the mercy of a man or woman with a pair of scissors. They spin you around to where you cannot see. Snip, snip here - snip, snip there. You watch what was to be "only a trim" fall onto the floor. You wait with nervous anticipation.
You are at the hands of someone that may be having a bad day. Or they could have some weird perception of what really looks good on top of your head. You cringe as they gasp under their breath. More hair seems to fall onto the floor than you had expressed in an attempt to cover up the mistake. You begin to rationalize.
They begin to style your new cut. Loads of different products are applied which smell great individually, but now your hair smells like a rotting fruit salad. They comb, blow-dry, brush, and curl. They get front and center, the last lock is in place. Finally, the finishing spray.
Just before they spin you around, you're aware of other stylists and patrons trying not to notice. Your heart starts to beat faster, your breath is short. It's like coming up on a car accident. You know you shouldn't look, but this time - it's you. Then you hear those words, "So how do you like it?"
Your eyes widen, you squirm in your seat. You even lean forward to take a closer look. You look at yourself at different angles. The mirror is held for you to take a look at the back of your head. As you try to compose yourself, you smile nervously, then you answer, "It's okay, it's fine". But, what you are really thinking is, "Shit!, I look like Kate Gosselin".The plastic cape, that holds what used to be your hair, is removed. Your reach for your wallet remembering that their scissors are still within reach. Your hand over their fee plus you even give them a tip. You walk quickly to your car and stare at yourself in the rear view mirror. You sigh, choke back the tears and try to calm yourself by thinking, "It'll grow back, it's only hair."
