I can’t fathom why bad haircuts happen to good
people, especially when this good people has a daughter who is one of the best
hairstylists in the nation, if not the WORLD.
The
answer, of course, is that Allison lives and works in St. Paul, MN, while I
live in La Crosse, WI. It’s a more convenient arrangement than when I lived in
Florida, and I could benefit from her digital dexterity in unlocking the charms
of my thinning locks only occasionally, when she went South or I visited North.
Now, we’re just a few hours apart. But once in awhile, our schedules still don’t mesh of her coming here, or me, there, so I have to go elsewhere when my mane looks like a pain.
Well, it really turned out to be a pain this time, as I had eschewed Kate’s usual (and repeated) advice to go to a real stylist. My excuse is lame: I don’t like to keep track of appointments, so I opt for places with friendly window signs proclaiming: “Walk-ins welcome.”
I try to choose where I walk in carefully, though, because I had discovered during previous follicular forays that you can’t always predict quality. Thus, when a shop’s name starts with “Great,” you can’t guarantee the clip. (Quite the contrary.) I wanted “Fantastic,” so I tried a place with that in the name, as I had had some success there before.
I suppose I should take part of the rap and acknowledge that it could have been missed communication. When I told her I wanted it short on the sides, around a half-inch, I didn’t imagine that she’d keep right on buzzing across the top of my dome. When she did, my gaping maw filled with so much hair that I couldn’t mouth a protest.
By then, the sheep was shorn, to this ridiculous extent:
Now, we’re just a few hours apart. But once in awhile, our schedules still don’t mesh of her coming here, or me, there, so I have to go elsewhere when my mane looks like a pain.
Well, it really turned out to be a pain this time, as I had eschewed Kate’s usual (and repeated) advice to go to a real stylist. My excuse is lame: I don’t like to keep track of appointments, so I opt for places with friendly window signs proclaiming: “Walk-ins welcome.”
I try to choose where I walk in carefully, though, because I had discovered during previous follicular forays that you can’t always predict quality. Thus, when a shop’s name starts with “Great,” you can’t guarantee the clip. (Quite the contrary.) I wanted “Fantastic,” so I tried a place with that in the name, as I had had some success there before.
I suppose I should take part of the rap and acknowledge that it could have been missed communication. When I told her I wanted it short on the sides, around a half-inch, I didn’t imagine that she’d keep right on buzzing across the top of my dome. When she did, my gaping maw filled with so much hair that I couldn’t mouth a protest.
By then, the sheep was shorn, to this ridiculous extent:
I panicked for a couple of reasons:
*
I knew Kate would be tempted to skin me
alive, especially since the process already had started.
*
I just landed a new job, and I have to
report in just a few days, and I’m afraid the fella who interviewed me won’t
remember me. I can just imagine him saying to HR: “I have NO idea who this guy
is; show him the door."
So I chose the obvious solution: I dawdled and fiddle-farted around before going home, hoping my hair would grow a bit. Actually, I was hoping that all of the hairs would grow, but I would have been satisfied with a tiny bit.
My solution failed, so I went home, with my tail between my legs. (The slasher had spared my tail.)
So I chose the obvious solution: I dawdled and fiddle-farted around before going home, hoping my hair would grow a bit. Actually, I was hoping that all of the hairs would grow, but I would have been satisfied with a tiny bit.
My solution failed, so I went home, with my tail between my legs. (The slasher had spared my tail.)
And here I sit, with a
haircut that hasn’t been this short since I was in first grade.
Kate was too stunned to
kill me, but suffice to say that she’s having great fun at my expense, asking
repeatedly who the stranger is. And she has pointed out several times that my mustache is longer than the hair on my noggin.
I can’t quite figure
out her reaction, because she’s a Wisconsin native and green-and-yellow-blooded
Packers fan who has a huge crush on World Champion wide receiver Donald Driver.
And he’s got a shaved head, too.
So what’s he got that I don’t? Well, there IS his smile,
but I’ve got a nice smile, too, I’ve been told. (Well, OK, I don’t have the
teeth, but that’s only part of a smile, right.)
So I checked him out on “Dancing With the Stars” to see
what I was up against.
Oh, NOW I see. It’s the abs. And the guns. And the tats.
And the moves. I guess my hairdo gone bad wouldn’t matter if I had other
attributes to distract folks.
I’ve got the last laugh, though, because Kate did
buy me a share in the Packers so, in a way, I own a piece of The Donald. And I
mean The Athletic Donald, of course.
I’m also toying with another solution when I head to
my first day on the new job. How’s this look for a fixer-upper?
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