I would be showing you a picture of my freshly-shorn scalp right now, but for the fact that instagram is being uncooperative. Instead I’ll have to link that shit and leave it up to you to be pro-active if you want to mock my new hair-do. Don’t be shy about that shit either – it’s quite a mockable haircut once you get started.
The short version, for those who aren’t inclined to follow the link, is that I recently went from my long-haired grunge-kid do back to the “seriously, just pull out the clippers and shave my damn head” look that seems to bother the hell out of hairdressers when you walk in with hair longer than six inches.
It’s a process I go through ever two years or so, whereupon I start growing my hair out again. Mostly I do it because my hair only works in these two states – in-between it’s a mess of kinks and spit-curls that are impossible to deal with – and because I never really got the hang of talking to hairdressers and getting the kind of haircut I actually wanted.
This time around, though, holy shit, it was a new experience. I kinda did everything on the spur of the moment after work, which meant I walked into one of those male barber places where you sit on a bench with a bunch of other dudes until someone calls your name. No appointments, just sit your ass and wait your turn.
I picked it because it was close to the train station and Pulp Fiction books. And, seriously, holy shit this place was good.
First up, they didn’t engage in the standard hair-dresser rhetoric when I asked them to shave my head, they just nodded and pulled out the clipper.
Secondly, well, no-one’s ever taken that much care when they’ve shaved my head before. It’s usually clippers, a little clean up, and you’re done. These guys fucking hunted for stray hairs, went at the back of my neck with a straight-razor, and took a little extra time to even out my fringe-line where the cowlicks usually fuck things up a few days after the cut.
I’m telling you, that shit was impressive, and totally worth the wait with a bunch of dudes who were, well, dude-like in their appreciation for the car mags and old copies of Zoo on offer while we were waiting. I may have found the first hairdresser I’ll willing go back to, and it only took me twenty-five years of haircuts to get there.
And with that, I leave you with an oddly in-theme favourite film-clip:
