Ugh. It’s Haircut Day again. I dread Haircut Day. I went to SuperGreat-Cuts – a departure from my usual habit of just letting my wife cut my hair.
It’s a marriage-saving strategy. I know I’ll end up resenting my stylist by the end of the haircutting experience and I’d rather have it be the 21-year-old, tattooed girl at Hair*Mart than my wife. It’s not that they’re bad stylists. Not at all. In fact, I have always had stylists who were superbly qualified. I just hate it when they do exactly what I ask them to.
“How would you like it, today?” she asks as she wraps tissue paper around my neck.
I look at her haircut – dyed black with chunks of red coming off the sides.
“I want what you’ve got,” I think to myself. Haircut Day always reminds me that I’m living an over-the-hill boring professional lifestyle, and my haircut is Exhibit A in the evidence file.
“Just a plain old normal haircut,” I sigh as a small part of my soul dies.
I’m noticeably stand-offish as we stand around the cash register waiting for the $14 charge to my credit card to be approved. I don’t smile. I don’t tell her it looks good. I know it’s rude – and I know it probably makes the stylist feel like I think she did a poor job. This isn’t the case at all, of course. But thanking her would feel a lot like shaking the Banker’s hand and thanking him for being so professional as he forecloses on my home.
“Your haircut looks great” I hear from across the room. I look up to see that it came from another one of the stylists – the one with sweeping blue bangs. The girl with red, spiky hair agrees, nodding approvingly.
“They must be required to say that whenever they think a customer is unhappy with their haircut,” I think.
Anyone else out there wish their profession allowed a little more freedom to express personal style (or in my case, more freedom to comfortably embrace a total lack of style)?