Fools Like Me

I got my haircut last night, hence no entry, not to mention two work projects that kept me writing until 1 a.m. I get my hair cut quite a bit – with short hair, you can pretty much go three weeks comfortably, four weeks if you’re really pushing it, especially if you have a low hairline in the back, as I am blessed with. This hairline issue basically means that if I go a day over 3.5 weeks, I suddenly find myself with Neanderthal Neck, and I start to consider turtlenecks as a viable option even in pudding-hot humidity.

My hairdresser did not disappoint in the drama department. As some of you may recall, he has a tendency to make every appointment as miserable as possible with Camille-worthy dramatic performances. Prior instances include abandoning me mid-foil to go curl into the fetal position behind a stack of hair product, crying and falling to one knee telling me he loved me, torturing me with nonstop talk of veiny penises (penii?) and threatening me with clairvoyant visions of his clients’ impending doom. These incidents are exacerbated and enabled by the fact that he runs his own salon and I often go after hours when we are alone. He is free to be, um, himself, I guess.

Last night’s incident really didn’t have anything to do with me specifically, per se, fortunately or unfortunately. Squiggy’s friend Tiggger was visiting when I got there. Squiggy (who is a tall skinny Jewish man in his mid-50s with a white pompadour and a penchant for low-cut polyester) introduced Tigger (who was a tall, attractive African American) as a “totally straight, and isn’t he SO HOT?” [actually yes, yes he was] former coworker and then promptly announced, after calling him a horrendous racial slur, that he would like to shove [Tigger's] penis up his “chocolate wizzwang.”

There were accompanying pelvic thrusts in Tigger’s general direction. Like, um, strippers do, if you get what I’m saying, and sweet lord, I hope you do, because I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE TO EXPLAIN THIS. But, um, there was visible swinging near my shoulder, and there may have been a bump that I would like to forget. Get it? IS IT CLEAR ENOUGH FOR YOU PLEASE SAY YES.

I died. The end.

Except, no! It went on! Tigger proceeded to come back at Squiggy with a retort of his own, YES!

I originally had a quote here, but I can’t! I CANNOT! It was too horrible, but please, let us suffice that there was more talk of chocolate wizzwangs, Tigger called Squiggy a horrible Jewish slur, along with a really upsetting word for a gay man, and then he told us that he could “break Squiggy in half” with his “Ron Jeremy unit” and then there was talk of a chocolate milkshake and I died again. Then, as if it couldn’t get worse, there was crotch grabbing of the Ron Jeremy unit. There were jerking motions that were, for me, a bit to, uh, realistic for your average Wednesday night. While the RJ stroking was going on, he was describing the girl he was going out with later in a little too much detail and good God, there was eye-closing and then – THEN – I actually died. For real. For the third time.

They laughed and laughed. It went on for at least an hour, the two of them hurling extraordinarily terrifying ethnic and derogatory insults at each other(at one point Squiggy took it to the lowest of lows with the ethnic slurs, and I was thisclose to running screaming from the building, honestly, because I was so miserable and uncomfortable with those things being said seriously, please dear God it was awful) and more penis grabbing and thwapping (against my ear at one point, folks, AGAINST MY EAR), and I have never been so miserable in my entire, entire life.

At the end, I just lost it, and I actually started weeping in the chair silently. No one noticed. Oh! And please: let’s not forget that because Squiggy was so busy thinking up snappy and racially-offensive retorts, I was stranded with a man brandishing scissors who was less than focused on my hair. Consequently I paid an embarrassing sum for a neck shave and repeated racial slurs, insults and a penis smacking repeatedly against my ear. Awesome.

By now, I imagine many of you are wondering why I continue to subject myself to this torture, yes? I would be if it wasn’t me, and to help answer that question, I am going to provide some photographic evidence from seasons past. More than a year ago, I wrote an early blog post about the worst haircut I ever had. And lo, it was bad, and before now, I’ve never posted photos. It was the last time I changed hairdressers, so you can see why I’m concerned. And so, that fateful day ages and ages ago, within an hour, one bad hairdresser took me from this:

I was experimenting with a Very Dark Moody color then, which was not only awful, but not the hairdresser’s fault. I have no one to blame for the Morticia look than myself.

To this:

Please note this photo was taken mere moments after I stopped crying and finally began to see the humor in it. I am miserable. I am fat. I am multi-chinned. I am wishing I could stop crying from the horror of it all, and when I do? I can’t stop laughing, because what the hell else do you do when this is what you look like? I also feel compelled to point out that what you cannot see is the long, desperate mullet in the back. Yep, there is a partay going on back there, much to my chagrin.

So you can see why I am reluctant to switch it up and give up a quasi-normal head of hair.
I’ve got my appointments booked through next June. Yes. Yes, I do.

*Lisa Loeb

**Also, I would like to remind everyone of Suebob‘s post. Please, I beg of you, heed her advice.

25 comments September 7th, 2006