I just got a haircut recently and I'm glad I did it because my do was getting so long that I was starting to look like 80s superstar Rick Springfield, except not as handsome... more like Rick Springfield's retarded cousin.
Making the trip to the salon is not easy for me. The thought of getting a haircut makes me sweat. When I call to make an appointment, my voice trembles and squeaks like a 12-year-old boy's.
But nothing freaks me out more than the hairstylists themselves. They're always trying to chat with me; I just ignore them, give them the silent treatment and pretend I can't hear them over the blow dryers and buzzing of electric razors. I also have a rule where I'll never go back to the same girl twice. I always do a walk-in with a random stylist, because I don't want them to get to know me or talk to me or get too attached, and I also don't want them to get too complacent. I had a lady who used to cut my hair for years -- her name was Bridgette -- and after a while, when I would come in, she would just take advantage of me and my time and use it to take care of some errands in the mall where the salon was at, or she would yap with other clients and coworkers while cutting my hair, not even paying attention to what she was doing. I'll never forgive Bridgette for that clipper incident that made me the laughing stock of my fifth grade class at Polk Elementary.
I also keep my hands glued to my side whenever I'm getting a hair cut, to avoid touching the stylist's privates with my elbow. It totally freaks me out when that happens. One of these days I'm going to snap and jump out of the chair and yell across the salon for all to hear, "Would you please stop resting your vagina on my elbow!" I know bald guys would get mad at me for saying this, but I envy you. You don't have to go through what I go through every 62 days.
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