Outlaw Barbers

We don’t get along, barbers and I. I view walking into a barbershop the same way Clint Eastwood probably feels in every western he ever made when he’s walking down that prototypical dusty main street and tumbleweed bounces across his path. At the other end of the street is the villain (barber) holding his six shooters (scissors and comb).

Clint says: “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

Villain says: “Draw, pardner.”

Clint shoots Villain. The End.

Except in my case, I don’t shoot the villain. I sit in a hydraulic chair with a blousy sheet attached around my neck and meekly say “take a little off the top” to the villain. Who then proceeds to do whatever he/she damn well pleases. That’s why the barber is the villain, and I’m not Clint Eastwood. I’m not even Clint Howard.

I am neither of these people.
In my experience, barbers listen to what I request, nod sagely while clicking their scissors open and shut, and then proceed to do whatever they feel would be best for my porcupine-like head of hair. I once got the “Flock of Seagulls” haircut unknowingly after asking for a “trim”. By “Flock of Seagulls” haircut I mean my head looked like a flock of seagulls shit on it after fluttering around a Taco Bell dumpster.

Another fun time, I got a “flattop” after requesting a “trim”. The top was definitely flat, but the top was also approximately seven feet high. Donald Trump was trying to sell apartment space on it because of the amazing views.

Yet another smashing day in barber town, I walked in cautiously and immediately said,

"Please just trim the sides and the back and leave the top long.”

I sat down in the chair suspiciously looking from side to side. The front desk girl said,

“You will be having Greg cut your hair tonight.”

“OK,” I said, not knowing who Greg was and not really caring. So, out comes Greg from some back room. He declares with a laugh “Another victim!” and all of the other haircutting girls start laughing.

“Greg never does what you ask!” one girl said with a giggle and a smack of her gum.

Needless to say, I walked out of there with a 1974 talk show host head and tear streaks of shame drying on my cheeks.

I don’t like barbers.