Bad Haircuts Happen

I thought the cut might be a little off even before I left his chair, but when I spent most of the next morning trimming a little here and a lot there, just to be able to leave the house, I was certain.

  

After my shower, with my hair good and wet, I could definitely tell that I had paid about $35 for a haircut that was 3/4 to 1 inch longer on the right side of my face than the left side. Somehow that just didn't seem right; 3/4 to 1 inch difference just wasn't close enough for me, so I whacked at it, cleaned out the sink, and continued getting ready.  I dried my hair and could see that I hadn't been brave enough with the scissors.  I went at it again and cleaned out the sink a second time. After putting the flat iron to it, I could see there were other problems.

  

I don't know; maybe it was my fault.  I told him I would like him to cut it like he usually does, but I wanted the sides a little longer this time and for it to slant from the back to the front a little more.  I even looked up the word for slant so I would know how to explain it. As usual, I used a lot of hand motions during the explanation too; picking up the hair on the side of my face, using the universal scissors sign, complete with moving fingers, to demonstrate scissors actually cutting.  With my thumb and finger I indicated the exact amount of hair to cut off the sides. I don't think I could have made it any clearer.  But whatever I thought I said, he interpreted it by:

  

Cutting the back with a razor making repeated passes over the hair. This process was not only scary because a razor was involved, but the sound it made was, well, not pleasant.  Maybe just one down from, fingers going down a chalkboard, on the scale of unpleasant sounds. When that finally ended, he got the blow-dryer out. I thought it was a little premature, but then I remembered I had seen him use the blow-dryer to blow the hair on the floor over to one corner so a lady with a broom and dustpan could sweep it up later. (The male, though quite possibly gay, chauvinist.) I thought maybe that was what he was up to.  But no.  He was blowing my hair dry and using a round brush on it.  

 Next, he got out his clippers, flipped the switch, and  told me, "Don't move, please." I wasn't about to. Then with the clippers turned upside down, he worked on the sides of my hair, just cutting the top layers somehow.  I didn't know what was going on with that.  The next thing I knew he put the clippers and comb down and went for the mirror that he holds up so you can see the back.  I was thinking, "Hey, what about the front; you know, the bangs?  What about the length of the sides?  Aren't you going to pull down on both sides of the hair with your fingers so you can see if the sides are even? Isn't that standard hairdresser procedure?"

 Guess not. He was finished.  He never once used a pair of scissors. (Apparently my demonstration hadn't been very effective.)

So after he showed me the back and looked at me for approval, I said, "Perfect." 

Of course I was lying, but at the time, it seemed like the only thing to do.  I just didn't have the vocab to ask him what happened to the slant and why he left the sides so long that I looked  like an Afghan or a Bassett Hound or some other breed of long-eared dog.  Of course, I was wearing my badge and that made me think twice about making a fuss.

But all is well that ends well, right?  After a few more trimming sessions and a few more cleaning the hair out of the sink episodes, I was able to leave the house.  It wasn't the worst haircut I had ever seen.

 But this might be. 

(The poor kid.)