Estilito-to-be
Last night I got a haircut. I had been looking on Craig's List for a free bed (found one, by the way), and I came across a posting for a free haircut by a senior cosmetology student. Being the thrifty young man I am, I responded, and last night was my appointment.
I showed up early, waited awhile until it was my proper appointment time, and took a seat in the Styling Chair. Now, I've always been bad at telling barbers/stylists/estilitos-to-be just what I want in a hairstyle, and I think this is generally because I don't really know. This time, I thought I'd circumvent that difficulty by bringing in a picture, of myself, with about the hairstyle I wanted. In my search for a picture, the best one I came across was a photo-booth polaroid of myself and an ex-girlfriend. So, I showed it to the stylist, we'll call him Curly, and he asked if we could keep the photo out during the haircut so that he could use it as a reference. I said sure, although it felt a little weird to have a polaroid of me kissing my ex-girlfriend sitting out for the whole shop to see. (During the haircut, it prompted Curly to ask, "So, that's your ex-girlfriend?" to which I replied, "Yeah, that's one of 'em..." The conversation ended there.)
So, I sat there, for the next HOUR AND A HALF as he cut my hair. It was fucking long. The time, not the hair. My hair's a lot shorter now. He got about halfway through the haircut and realized he needed to cut it shorter, so he essentially started over, 45 minutes into the process. I can't complain. It was free. But I got a little nervous as it got later, and the women working there wanted to close up the shop, and Curly started doing frantic here-and-there snips to get it "just right". Meanwhile, this rather large guy who I guess runs the cosmetology school comes by and says "Oh wow, that's looking great, Curly," and I'm thinking "This looks pretty damned far from great! You don't teach these stylists shit! I could have cut my hair myself in half this time and it would look better! This guy's going to leave me with a sliced ear and 10 bald spots, and all you care about is getting those tuition checks!" But I didn't really say anything beyond "Yeah, that looks good. I like that, " with the implication: "Now stop cutting my hair and let me go home."
He finished, I bolted, only to realize after a few blocks that I'd left the damned kissy Polaroid at the shop. So, I went back to get it, self-conscious of the fact that I'd already mussed up the styling job the guy did because I didn't like it, and now he was going to see. But whatever. I got the picture back and headed home, feeling like everyone on the street and in the BART station was looking at me and whispering "Man, that is one FUCKED UP haircut. He must have gone to a student barber."
Then I got home and looked at the cut, messed with it, and now I like it a lot. Thanks Curly!
p.s. The guy next to me is talking about the "Power Structure" and "Tools of the Powerless". And I'm surrounded by Art Chicks. God bless art colleges.
I showed up early, waited awhile until it was my proper appointment time, and took a seat in the Styling Chair. Now, I've always been bad at telling barbers/stylists/estilitos-to-be just what I want in a hairstyle, and I think this is generally because I don't really know. This time, I thought I'd circumvent that difficulty by bringing in a picture, of myself, with about the hairstyle I wanted. In my search for a picture, the best one I came across was a photo-booth polaroid of myself and an ex-girlfriend. So, I showed it to the stylist, we'll call him Curly, and he asked if we could keep the photo out during the haircut so that he could use it as a reference. I said sure, although it felt a little weird to have a polaroid of me kissing my ex-girlfriend sitting out for the whole shop to see. (During the haircut, it prompted Curly to ask, "So, that's your ex-girlfriend?" to which I replied, "Yeah, that's one of 'em..." The conversation ended there.)
So, I sat there, for the next HOUR AND A HALF as he cut my hair. It was fucking long. The time, not the hair. My hair's a lot shorter now. He got about halfway through the haircut and realized he needed to cut it shorter, so he essentially started over, 45 minutes into the process. I can't complain. It was free. But I got a little nervous as it got later, and the women working there wanted to close up the shop, and Curly started doing frantic here-and-there snips to get it "just right". Meanwhile, this rather large guy who I guess runs the cosmetology school comes by and says "Oh wow, that's looking great, Curly," and I'm thinking "This looks pretty damned far from great! You don't teach these stylists shit! I could have cut my hair myself in half this time and it would look better! This guy's going to leave me with a sliced ear and 10 bald spots, and all you care about is getting those tuition checks!" But I didn't really say anything beyond "Yeah, that looks good. I like that, " with the implication: "Now stop cutting my hair and let me go home."
He finished, I bolted, only to realize after a few blocks that I'd left the damned kissy Polaroid at the shop. So, I went back to get it, self-conscious of the fact that I'd already mussed up the styling job the guy did because I didn't like it, and now he was going to see. But whatever. I got the picture back and headed home, feeling like everyone on the street and in the BART station was looking at me and whispering "Man, that is one FUCKED UP haircut. He must have gone to a student barber."
Then I got home and looked at the cut, messed with it, and now I like it a lot. Thanks Curly!
p.s. The guy next to me is talking about the "Power Structure" and "Tools of the Powerless". And I'm surrounded by Art Chicks. God bless art colleges.
posted at 1:23 PM
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