I’m fed up with my hair.  It’s seriously gotten the best of me, and I think it’s time for a change.

Since I lost my job, I’ve more or less just been letting my hair grow long.  I’ve had it cut four or five times, but nothing more than just a touch-up or a trim.  Right now, the bangs are long enough to chew on, and the sides are pretty much the same.  The back is shorter, but not by much.  I’m pretty fuzzy overall.

Problem is; I rather like it when it behaves.  It actually looks pretty good when styled up really nice, but my hair and I have never gotten along.  It insists on doing whatever it wants as soon as I look away from the mirror.  Lately, that means forming a part like the Red Sea right down the middle, and flopping the rest over the sides and front.  It’s obnoxious, and no amount of gel or greasy product will tame it.

I hate my hair hanging in my face.  I hate, hate, hate it.  I don’t know how people with long hair can stand it.  It’s so annoying and bothersome.  If I drive with the windows down, it constantly blows into my eyes, obscuring my vision.  Not only that, but it won’t stay in place if I push it back, and oftentimes you get those single strands that tickle your nose and forehead. 

So you may be saying, "well, if you hate it so much, cut it off!"  And you would be correct in thinking that.  I’ve decided that it is indeed time to chop off the offending shag.  It’s a little sad though, because I do like the look of long hair on guys.  Lots of guys seem to be able to rock it, but apparently I’m not one of them.  Right out of the shower, when it’s wet, or if I glob in tons of sticky product, I can trowel it into a form resembling something socially acceptable, but the sexiness wears of very quickly.  Not fifteen minutes into my day, after a wetting and combing session that takes far too long, my hair snickers playfully and then proceeds to swirl and flip into a confusing mess, like a gymnast on crack, tangling and poofing, before finally settling down to hang directly into my face.  Running back to the mirror, I discover the horror show that looks like a bad rug from the 70s that’s collapsed on top of my head and started sliding down the front.  Tackling it quickly with a comb only results in a temporary solution.  It’s folly, I say.  I’ve even threatened it a couple of times with the clippers, but it knows I’m bluffing.

Or am I?

Going to the hair place tomorrow to teach my locks a lesson.  Gonna hack several inches off too.  That oughta learn it good.

Doesn’t matter what stage your hair is in.  Of course, there are times when your hair looks great, maybe a couple days after a cut, or when you see a stylist and have it done up all professional-like.  Still, it only takes a few days or maybe a week for it to hit another "stage" where it looks like crap again.  These stages occur at any length too.  Even so, there are people that always just seem to have perfect hair.  I don’t know how they do it either, but surely they have bad days too.  Don’t they? 

I guess I shouldn’t care, really.  I’m a guy, and as a guy daily hair maintenance should involve nothing more than running my hands through it and messing it up a little.  Then it should settle down and look cool.  I’m blessed in some ways; my hairline is in the same place it’s always been, and there’s no gray anywhere.  I’ll always have a full head of hair if I want it, and it will always be red.  Even when I’m old.

I just wish it would behave. 

I was looking in a mirror today.  Normally, I have to avoid mirrors because my reflection usually gets this horrified look when it sees me, but today I had no choice.

I was getting a haircut at the Barber School around the corner from my apartment.  I’m very happy with this place for a couple of reasons, namely the haircuts are only $5, and the students there are so fearful of screwing up your hair that they take lots of extra time to do a good job.  Today was no exception, and the finished product was very pleasing to me.  At any rate, I was looking in the mirror because I was sitting in the barber’s chair whilst trying to explain, in guy’s terms, how I wanted my hair.  “Un-poofy” is what I typically declare, but sometimes it draws blank stares.  Luckily, the teacher lady was around and very instrumental to the process of describing my cut to the student.

[Side note:]  In Utah, there’s one hairstyle for men:  Short on top, blended into shaved sides, no bangs.  Very popular because a majority of men in Utah are Mormon and that’s how Mormons wear their hair.  It’s either because they’re young and impressionable missionaries, or because they used to be missionaries, or because they want to be missionaries.  They simply keep the same style all their lives.

I am decidedly un-missionary.  My hair is pretty long and floppy, and does not conform in any way, shape, or form to local styling rules.  I shall term it the Red Disaster, and I mention this because local barbers have NO CLUE whatsoever how to cut it.  I may have well beamed down from the Big Red Mothership, because they simply cannot fathom longer hair on a guy.  Therefore, much explanation is needed on how to tame the Red Disaster.

Where was I?  Oh yeah, the mirror.  So I was getting my hair cut, and I was forced to look directly at my reflection for many minutes.  I realized a couple of things right there and then.  Namely, that I am pretty damn ugly, and that I know exactly why.

My face used to have a chiseled appearance.  Kind of a square jaw, high cheeks, and an oval shape.  Now it’s just round.  Big, fat, and round.  I’ve got two chins too, whereas there used to be one sharp one.  This has the effect of making my eyes look beady and evil, and combined with my previously poofy hair, I looked like a fat Conan O’Brian.  If that weren’t enough, the most stand-out feature to me, at least in the barber shop lighting, was my scar.

I have this scar which is centered right between my eyes at the brow level.  It sits right at the top of my nose, and to many it would appear to be a wrinkle.  It’s not a wrinkle however, and I know this because it is the product of three things:

1.  Another person who desired to sit where I was sitting.

2.  An alley full of sharp pebbles and broken glass.

3.  My face.

No, this wasn’t a fight, although it could have been.  I’m told that after getting up I took a swing at the guy who pushed me that would have decapitated him if it would have landed, however at that point my entire head was gushing blood like Niagara Falls and I was whisked to the nurse’s station at school.  By the way, all of this took place about 7th grade-ish, so it’s been a while back.

So here I am today with the scar(s) to prove it, and one of them happens to be right between my eyes.  I’ve always wondered why everyone pegs me as looking mad or pissed off all the time, and today I came to the conclusion that my scar, in certain lighting, makes it look like my eyebrows go all the way across my face.  It gives a mean look, coupled with my new beady eyes, and it does indeed make me look mad.  I never understood it before, but it kinda makes sense now.

I can’t do much about the scar.  It’s been a part of my life for many years, and I figure it will always be there.  The fat thing I can control though.  I’ve been depressed lately because of my giant man-gut, which is slowly but surely expanding my waistline, but I didn’t stop to notice how much my face has changed.  It’s truly horrifying, and it must be stopped.  I don’t wish to be the Bad, the Bad, AND the Ugly.

There’s a new barber school in Midvale. It’s right behind the jewelry store, and a short walk from my apartment. Having the misfortune of looking in the mirror this morning and noting my amusing appearance, I thought maybe a haircut would be just the trick.

Now, I don’t much care for my hair. That’s not to say that I don’t take care of it. I wash it daily and occasionally condition it, then I comb it and style it and pretend that it looks decent. But I don’t obsess over it. It’s not worth it, because my hair has a mind of its own. I may get out of the shower and style it up all nice, maybe a dollop of gel, but as soon as I look from the mirror it’s poof city. Seriously, I have no control. It pretty much does what it wants at that point, so while I may think “Brad Pitt” when preening in the mirror, my hair is perfectly happy styling itself into a reject prop from a Wendy’s commercial once I turn away.

So I don’t obsess. These days I tend to wear it kinda longish and floppy. It gives me a more youthful appearance (in my own mind) and means I can be lazy and not get it cut for months at a time. I’m capable of trimming it up a bit myself, courtesy of the clippers I bought a few years ago and a smidgeon of knowledge passed on from my stylist mother. I draw the line at actually cutting it though, save for the times during the summer when I just buzz it all off. Several Attractive Females have the opinion that I look better with the hair though, so in my misplaced vanity I do my best to abstain from shaving it anymore.

Since I lack the skills (read: bravery) to cut it myself, and because it started to resemble a wildlife preserve, I decided to get it cut. There are two more factors in this decision. One, it was a beautiful Spring-like day and I could take a nice walk down to the place, and two, haircuts are only $5.

Haircuts are only $5 there because it’s a school. A Barber school, and the barbers are students. Some people might balk at this, thinking there’s no way some under-skilled student is going to touch my lovely thatch, but I have no such reserves. If they butcher it, I’ll just buzz it. Easy and simple. I’m a guy; hair isn’t a huge deal unless it’s thinning.

The girl I got seemed confident at first. Eager and willing to put her hard-earned knowledge to the test. I sat down and outlined what I wanted in direct and specific guy terms. “Take some off the sides and make it un-poofy,” said I. She seemed to understand. Her instructor (older guy with pretty hair) hovered about as well, occasionally peering over at her progress, peeking from under his glasses and giving the sporadic “uh huh” at times. What interested me is that once she started, some of that confidence waned. Instructor Guy took over and gave a few example snips, demonstrating the proper technique, and she seemed to follow. I did notice a peculiar tendency to cut too little though, as she would run the comb through to gather up a pinch of hair, then cut like .0000009-tenths of an inch off of one strand. Instructor Guy’s only comment was “She’s one of our most careful ones.” Uh huh.

After about twenty minutes or so, she pronounced me done. Honestly, it didn’t really look any different than when I went in. It feels slightly different, maybe trimmed up and straightened out a bit, which is subtle but not wrong. Upon further inspection, it does appear to have been cut, although I could stand to lose a bit more. Even so, I’m happy with it. I thanked her (she let out a relieved sigh, as if she’d been nervously holding her breath the entire time) and paid my $5 to the receptionist, with a $2 tip to the student. I even let them add me to the client list, thinking I’ll likely be back next time.

Five dollars isn’t a bad deal at all.

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