Haircut?

As you can probably tell from the title of my official second post, I felt the need to get a haircut. 
Now normally, I don't have an issue with haircuts, after all, it's just sitting in a cramped assortment of chairs that was seemingly put in at the last minute when the store designers realized, "Hey, we probably will need a waiting room," waiting for your barber to finish whatever strange barber rituals that keeps them away from the public eye for a short amount of time every time they finish cutting the last customer's hair, wondering why there's at least 8 or 9 seperate little kiosks to get your hair all chopped up when there's only about six barbers at the very most.  After this unnecessary wait time, you find yourself approaced by your prospective barber. 

Now, normally, you see yourself surrounded by people getting called up by rather attractive female barber... uh... hairstylist... uh... COSMETOLOGIST (friggin' haircutters and their desperation to be accepted into the scientific community).  These attractive female whatchamacallits call up that eight year old kid, then the middle-aged woman who thinks that that one gray hair in her head is going to be the cause of her death and that it should get dyed another color immediately, forget the fact she has a husband who said he'd love her through sickness and health and all that fancy marriage mumbo-jumbo and maybe a couple kids who could get a nice amount of food, which by the way, is needed to live, for about half the price of her hair job.

Meanwhile, I, the teenage kid with raging hormones, sit in a chair saying in my head, "I WILL NOT HIT ON YOU BECAUSE I'D RATHER YOU FOCUS ON CUTTING MY HAIR RATHER THAN CUTTING MY EAR OFF."

After having this happen multiple times, I've come to the conclusion that all female barbers have an irrational fear of teenage boys.  But that's getting a little off-topic.  Allow me to get back to my point.

After sitting in said chair for however long it takes, reading magazines that were relevant about two months ago (which, considering it isn't the two-year old mags they have in your typical dentist's offices, really isn't that big of a deal), you are finally approached by the person who still thinks it's okay to be labeled "barber."  He (probably the only male in a five-mile radius who has a job like this, and that's being optimistic) then proceeds to give you a mediocre haircut, trying to spur conversations that shouldn't happen by trying to pry open your soul by asking mundane questions about your high school lifestyle.

Okay, most of that is exaggeration, even I will admit that, but it's how I feel and you're going to have to deal with my dislike of social situations.

See, what actually happened is this:

I walked in for my haircut, all savvy and suave, acting like a total B.A. with my t-shirt, jeans and hi-top shoes (okay, I'm exaggerating again, so sue me) and as I waltz on over to the lady at the front desk to inform her that I have, in fact, arrived for my haircut, when who should walk over to said desk but a person who is in my grade in high school.  I found myself face to face with yet another teenager who had a job when I, in fact, had nothing but the money my dad gave me for the day's haircut.

Life kinda sucks when you don't have a job.

Anyway, she had to look up my name on their database (I feel like a science fiction hero every time this happens; they're looking in their DATABASE for li'l ol' me) and she asked for my name.  This was awkward, because she knew it but couldn't spell it.  She didn't seem to excited to see me there. Of course we have probably had one sorta-conversation in our lives before, and that's a story all in its own.  I might have given her a funny look, as if I had no idea she would be the type to have a job, but, now that I think about it, of all the people I expected to see working at a hair salon, she would definitely be in the top ten.

After the awkward back-and-forth with hairstylist-to-be, I found myself sitting in a chair that was stuck between a wall and a garbage can, surrounded by young girls who were at that stage in their life when reading was so new they didn't know how to read in their heads.  Don't get me wrong, I was glad that they were reading rather than just playing some video game on their DS, it's just hard to read a copy of the New Yorker with young girls making animal noises next to you.

The wait was actually pretty short for once, this one only lasted about eighteen minutes, and I only had to watch the attractive stylists take two people to their haircut-lair (which is what I shall be calling it for the rest of my life, there isn't a doubt in my mind).  Also there was a cute little kid talking to his parents.  That's always fun.

But finally, when I was called up, it was by a middle-aged woman, I mean, you can't have an awesome haircut.  No, it doesn't work that way at all.

So the whole duration of the haircut went pretty well, I must admit, because, for once, there was a distinct lack of small talk.  That's right, people, I may have found the only hairstylists in the history of Cosmetology who doesn't feel the need to pester you by finding out useless information that they'll be asking the next time they cut your hair.  Talk about a little life victory.

At least until I realized that getting your hair cut without any type of menial conversation is among the most awkward situations you could possibly have, similar to having to act in love with your ex-girlfriend in front of everybody you've ever met on a stage.

But I try not to remember that aspect of playing Hugo Peabody in our production of "Bye Bye Birdie."

Finally, after about twenty minutes of fun, Mrs. Haircutter asked me if I wanted to put anything in my hair.  Now, normally, I don't really do anything to my hair.  I shower, use shampoo, maybe a comb here and there, and that's my hairstyle for the day.  Today, however, I found myself thinking, "Eh, what the heck.  Put that goop in my hair, lady!"

So she did.  And then she became aware of the great secret I have managed to hide from everyone in the universe who wants to style my hair for me (which I hope is a small number, because, let's be honest, that's a really creepy thought).  The secret?

MY HAIR IS A WILD BEAST THAT CANNOT BE CONTROLLED.

That's right.  Had She-barber known the hell she was getting into, she would have plopped some pomade on my head and said, "Figure it out yourself, kid."  Unfortunately, she did not, and for a good eight minutes or so, she rubbed my head, hoping desperately for some kind of decent hairstyle to form.  After these eight minutes, she stopped, said, "How does that look?"

Admittedly, it did look okay, although I really wasn't hoping to go for the douchebag look.  If I had wanted to, I would have walked in wearing whatever gas they spray by the gallon at your local Hollister Store, a polo shirt with a popped collar, a poorly-straightened baseball cap, a cocky grin, and a nametag saying, "Hi! My name is Chad!"

However, I told her it looked fine and took off that weird robe thing they make you wear when you get your haircut.

Once I paid and got into my truck for the drive home, I fixed my hair with about two seconds of my time (come on, we're all guilty of this and you know it) and drove off to the tune of "Somebody Told Me," by The Killers.

All in all, a good way to spend my Saturday afternoon.