Today I got another haircut, the first one since the one in Delhi. (Which was by a good measure the most bizarre haircut I’ve ever had. Or, if not the most bizarre haircut-in-itself, then the most bizarre haircut-experience I’ve ever had. It was fucking bizarre.)
Reaction from Dan in response to today’s haircut: “Did you get a haircut?” “Yeah.” “When did you get your fucking hair cut, dude?” We had worked together all day. “Today. After work.”
“Did you pay for that shit?”
I paid thirteen dollars for my haircut. I tipped three more dollars. It was not a very good haircut. Is not a very good haircut. It’s kind of not the best haircut I’ve ever had.
(Nobody knows how to cut curly hair. I thought it was just Indians, but it’s also white people. Maybe I should see a specialist.)
The best haircuts I’ve ever gotten have, without a doubt, been done by ex-girlfriends. Ex-girlfriends-now. At the time they were girlfriends. At the time they were singular: girlfriend, as in one at a time. I’ve never had my hair cut by an ex-girlfriend-now, only girlfriends that have later turned into ex-girlfriends. They’ve cut my hair. Girlfriends have. And they’ve done it well. I can’t say why. Or, you know, maybe I can. Maybe girlfriends know what makes you look good better than hairdressers do. I think they must. After all, they’re the ones who are willing to fuck you. If they’re willing to fuck you, you should be moderately good looking. Or have a gigantic cock. (I am moderately good looking). So girlfriends do a good job cutting your hair because they don’t want to be fucking some dude with crazy hair. Unless they’re into that kind of thing. Which most of them aren’t.
(But now I’m getting philosophical.)
Point of the story, most people cut my hair too short. They usually fuck up the curls, too. Girlfriends generally hedge cautious, and it pays dividends, that caution does.
When I was a child, my mother brought me to the hairdresser… shit, I dunno–once every month and a half or so. The style my mother demanded on my behalf was called “little boy regular.” It made me look like a regular little boy. But I was never a regular little boy. No one was. But especially me, not me. I was the kind of little boy who would grow up to write about getting haircuts when he was a child, and from ex-girlfriends-who-were-at-the-time-of-cutting-my-hair-present-tense-girlfriends, and haircuts from sexually frustrated Indian men, and from middle-aged women at Casual cuts with pictures of their children on the mirror.
(That was a joke. I don’t think it landed right.)
My hair was greasy from a long time of not washing it and from staining a house all day. Middle-aged woman with pictures of her children on the mirror asked me if I used “product” and I laughed nervously and wondered if my ears were clean before saying, “Um, no,” and she says, “Well, darn tootin’, let’s give that hair a wash,” and is that at all how she actually spoke? And no, it was not. But it doesn’t matter. My story, my rules. Middle-aged woman with pictures of her children on the mirror washed my hair. Conditioned my hair. “Men don’t understand how important it is to wash their hair,” letting out a little sigh, “I can hardly get my boyfriend to do it three times a week,” me thinking, “Christ, I doubt I’ve washed my hair three times this year,” or, alternatively, “That’s what she said.” “Never mind conditioner,” she continues, and though I’m not really listening I am. “It makes your hair so nice and soft.” She finished blasting my head with hot water, I opened my eyes, stood up, sat on the barber’s chair…
And at any rate, and in conclusion? The nice middle-aged woman with pictures of her children on the mirror? Completely fucked up my hair much? Yeah? Maybe? Quite possibly? Might very well have? And everyone makes mistakes sometimes? And live and let live? And c’est la vie and whatever the fuck?
Jesus Christ almighty.