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Santa Maria Sun / Humor

The following article was posted on December 15th, 2015, in the Santa Maria Sun - Volume 16, Issue 41 [ Submit a Story ]
The following articles were printed from Santa Maria Sun [santamariasun.com] - Volume 16, Issue 41

The haircut experience

Krider would rather visit the dentist than get a haircut

By ROB KRIDER

I know that I should be thankful that I have a full head of hair. Genetically, I’ve been quite lucky in the hair department. Well, let me be more specific, lucky for the hair on the top of my head. Now the hair on my back, which is growing in patches that indicate at some point someone in my family mated with a Sasquatch, that hair is a very different story. But on my noggin I haven’t had to deal with going bald … yet.

The reason I’m not thankful to have a full mop on my head is because my hair grows way too fast. I’m constantly in the “I need a haircut” mode. Plus I tend to procrastinate going to get my hair cut, which results in a disheveled look that doesn’t scream hipster but instead points more to homeless.


I’m probably the only person who will admit this, but if given the choice, instead of a trim at the salon, I’d prefer a filling at the dentist. Full disclosure, my dentist is pretty loose with the legal drugs. He attended dental school during the ’60s; Dr. Feelgood is what I call him. God bless his gentle free spirit. It would be a totally different experience at the hair salon if they were hooking people up to nitrous oxide at Supercuts.

I personally just don’t enjoy the haircut experience. A lot of it is my own fault. It seems like I have pretty poor timing when it comes to showing up for a haircut. It’s always like the night before picture day at school and 17 fourth graders are on the list ahead of me. So, I sit in the salon for an hour and try to kill time by flipping through some tattered gossip magazines. These glossy magazines just make me feel bad about myself. 

Chris Pratt used to be and look like me; a soft and jolly smartass. But now he works out 18 hours a day, lost a bunch of weight, and made a successful sci-fi action movie. This was a total jerk move. He was the everyman in Hollywood, complete with a little beer belly. Now, thanks to him and his personal trainer, my wife, whom I love, gets to say to me, “Look, Chris Pratt has six-pack abs. You could too.” The only way I’m getting six-pack abs is if they are somehow miraculously created by eating large doses of Baskin Robbins ice cream.

After Chris Pratt and the rest of the magazine are done making me feel like the ugliest person on the planet who is living the most boring life in the history of the world, my name is finally called. The female hair stylist always asks me the same question, “What are we here for today?” Standing there at the salon with unkempt hair over my ears, it seems pretty obvious why I’m there: to pay $15 for a mediocre haircut. 

Frustrated by the unnecessary question I always want to say, “I’m here for a vasectomy. Wait, this isn’t a hospital right here between the Verizon store and the Papa John’s Pizza?”

Of course, I never utter anything sassy to the hair stylist who has three different piercings, six tattoos I can see, and is holding a sharp object. I merely smile and say, “I’m here for a haircut.” When I sit in the chair and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror I instantly remember why I hate getting my hair cut. I don’t like staring at my round face in the mirror. It makes me realize that I don’t have a very accurate understanding of what I actually look like, or how many chins I have. I walk around the city ignorantly assuming I look like Chris Pratt, and I feel like I have the world at my fingertips. When I see my reflection, I wonder how I find the courage to leave the house every morning.

After all the waiting, the futile questions, and the self-evaluation, eventually it’s finally time for the stylist to cut my hair. I’m almost out the door, except I’m not. The hair stylist wants to talk and talk and talk while she cuts my hair. She just wants to be social, and I can appreciate that. But the problem is she can’t tell a story without using her hands to talk. So she cuts one small piece of my hair, then stops and begins to go on with her story again, flailing her arms around and passionately explaining to me whay she loves the show Scream Queens.

Once she’s done spoiling the season finale for me, she cuts one more little piece of hair. Then she stops again, starts with the hand gestures, and tells me about the Facebook post she saw on her sister’s page about Top Ramen and how funny it was. I’ve never met her sister. It didn’t sound that funny to me. Her sister sounds pretty deprived.

I’m a polite person. I don’t say anything like, “Hey, your verbal rendition of the crazy text strand you and your best friend had about McDonald’s possible re-release of the McRib is fascinating, but can we get back to cutting my hair? It’s growing faster than you’re cutting it.” 

Instead I keep my mouth shut. I just smile and act interested in the stories about her boyfriend’s stepmom, the one with the TV that broke just a year after she bought it on Black Friday.

Eventually, only because it’s closing time, my haircut is finally completed. It usually doesn’t look like the cut I asked for, but my hair is noticeably shorter. But, before I can leave I have to be upsold, “Do you want to purchase any product tonight?”

“No, thank you.” Dudes don’t refer to anything they put on their body as “product.” We call it gel, and we buy it by the 50-gallon barrel once every five years for $3 at the grocery store. We don’t purchase a 6-ounce bottle of “product” for $15 from the salon. It’s just not part of the dude code.

When the experience is all said and done, I always tip the hair stylist at least 30 percent. Regardless of my lack of love for the haircut adventure, I still come back to the same place for the same treatment over and over again. And they absolutely always ask me the same question, “What are we here for today?”

“Open heart surgery?” It would probably be more pleasant for me.

Rob is of the opinion that bald dudes are actually the lucky ones.




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