It's Friday, and I've just gotten paid. I feel rumpled and disheveled. Contributing to this is the fact that my bangs have grown past my eyebrows. When they get to this length, they curl in different directions. Normally I cut them myself, but it's been at least a year since I had a haircut. I probably need a trim.
Across from the bank where I deposit my check every Friday, there is a place called "CT Haircutters". I have contemplated going in there for a trim every week for over a month now. Yesterday I decided to give it a try. I park. I walk around to the front door. It's locked. There are two people working the barber's chairs. A young, blonde woman fetches her keys and attempts no less than three times to unlock the door. She turns the lock. She tries the knob. She turns the lock again. She tries the knob again. This goes on for far too long. Finally she gets the door open. It's been a couple minutes.
"You guys open?" I ask, once the door's open.
"Yeah, we just didn't open that door yet today," she says. I am not otherwise acknowledged.
I walk toward a corner where there are a bunch of painted wooden benches lining a small alcove. There is a man feverishly cleaning a window he has removed from the frame. He has coke bottle glasses, is really small in stature and is wearing enough clothes to go hunting in the fall, meanwhile it's a wilting 95 degrees outside. He moves around the window as it lies perpendicular to the ground, and in doing so he knocks over the gumball machine which goes crashing to the floor. The sound in the small space is incredibly loud. I can see from where I stand that the clear plastic tank of the machine is cracked. Almost as loudly as the smash of the machine, the man who will be cutting my hair yells, "Donnie!"
There are a few loud and indecipherable yells that go back and forth. The window cleaner disappears. I find the crossword puzzle in the newspaper and no sooner do I open it before hearing a gruff voice saying, "Who's next?" I stand and walk towards him. He has a played out short '80's mullet that reaches no further than the collar of his white button down shirt. It feathers around his round, bloated face. I explain to him that I'd like a trim. He looks at me and says, "You look like Kat Von Deets." "Who?" I ask. "You mean Kat Von D!" yells the blonde girl who opened the door. I look nothing like this woman. My response of, "Oh. I know who you mean," is apparently not satisfactory to him. "It's supposed to be a compliment," he says. "I take it as such," says I.
I'm sitting in the chair and he says, "I'm gonna cut your bangs dry so they don't shrink up on you." I know I'm in trouble when he doesn't even bother to part them from the rest of my hair, just gets to cuttin' with a minimum of combing. Less than a minute later, he seems to be done with this. My bangs hang in a wavy line above my eyebrows. They are nowhere near being even, but if I let him try to straighten this out, I might end up with less than an inch of hair poking out like a tuft of grass. I decide not to say anything. This is probably when I should have voiced that I had had enough of this haircut. I am normally quite assertive - I don't know what got into me.
Sometime in the middle of the bang cutting, I heard what sounded like, "Now back to Victoria dumbass," issuing from the television news. I said, "Did she just say Vicoria Dumbass?" He said, "No. They said Gomez, but it's pretty much the same thing." What the fuck?
Now it's time to trim the rest of my hair. He instructs me to stand up and then, without parting my hair, he begins chopping off the ends as he walks around me. I'm standing there looking at myself in the mirror, the crimp from my ponytail makes the hair poke out of the top of my head. It hasn't been combed. I say, "Aren't you going to part my hair?" He replies, "It won't make that much of a difference," and continues with a speed more appropriate to stringing lights on a Christmas tree than trimming hair. At some point he makes the decision that he's done.
"What do you think?" he says. I get close to the mirror and notice several longer hairs in my bangs. "Can I use your scissors?" I ask. 'I can't let you do that. We're a licensed shop. It's against regulations." I could have spend another twenty minutes pointing to individual hairs that poked from my bangs, but had reached the conclusion that I ought to go somewhere else. The problems weren't going to be corrected here.
It kills me that didn't complain. I had to get a haircut for my haircut! I paid $11.00 for hair rape. Duh!