Okay, so I have a place where I go to get my haircut. Haircuts have not been, historically, something that I worry about. In the first place, I was a Bay Area hippy when I was young. I had hair down to my butt. Also, I don’t really worry that much about how I look. But now I have that annoying job as a private security officer, I have been forced to take grooming more seriously.
So, I have a place. I had another place. It was full of attractive young Asian ladies who gave the haircuts. Mostly, it was close to my house. But, it turns out, speaking English for both parties involved in the hair cutting process is actually pretty important. Let me rephrase that. It doesn’t matter what languages the two people involved speak, as long as they have at least one language in common.
So I found my new place. But something happened to it. Either the corner of the front wall was undercut by the heavy rains, or maybe a car tried to invent the drive-through haircut. But it has been closed. So, as a blast from my own past, I tried a Supercuts like I went to back in the day. This is where I learned that, even if the two people involved in a haircut do speak the same language, they actually have to be able to communicate effectually.
So, long story still long, I used my own trimmer to tidy up a little. Guys, you know how when you are shaving your face, and trying to get your facial hair choice even, and you go too far on one side, then you go too far on the other when you try to even it out, and you end up with no facial hair? Well, I did that on my own head.
It started off fine. But then I tried to run the trimmer with the length-guard straight back the top of my head, and all of a sudden, the length guard decided to guard for a different length… a much shorter length. I had, in essence, a reverse Mohawk. One stripe of really short hair down the middle of my head. Oh, I manfully tried to fix it. I ended up with what can only be described as a patchy mess on my head. I looked like a had the mange. Like a dog that had lost a fight to a weasel. Like semi-decomposed roadkill.
So I had to go to a barber to try to salvage what was left… and that is what is left.
Pouring My Art Out 