The Day I Shaved My Head Bald

baldy_kyle

Getting a haircut the other day reminded me of something that happened back in college.  It was during the summer, and I had my customary buzz cut going on.  I love having my hair buzzed.  It felt so nice in the shower, worked well with having the top down on my Jeep Wrangler (my car at the time), and I could do the haircut myself in just a few minutes.

Well, one day I was giving myself a haircut, when all of a sudden I felt a couple of things happen.  First, I felt the guard on the trimmers slip.  Second, I felt the metal sliding across the top of my head as the trimmers dug into my hair.  I stopped instantaneously, but the damage had already been done.  There, on the very top of my head was a 2″ x 2″ spot where the hair was gone.

That was a Saturday, and for a couple of days, I made the most of it.   Sunday morning, I had one of my little brothers write the word “HAIR” with a pen in the bald spot.  I went to church that way.

Sunday night, I went ahead and finished the job – shaving my head bald.

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Another Haircut

Those who have been reading this blog for a while know that I hate getting haircuts.  But yesterday, my wife and I agreed that I had put things off for long enough.  It was time to find a place in Knoxville.

What I didn’t mention in my last post about haircuts is that my wife has been encouraging me for a couple of years to upgrade my experience to a real hair salon.   It’s hard for me to admit this, but yesterday, I gave in to my wife’s suggestions.

Everything was new and different from the beginning, starting with needing to make an appointment.  I’m used to sitting around in a room full of other people who, from the looks on their faces, clearly feel the same way I do about haircuts.  Fortunately, they had an immediate opening available, so after I called, I headed right over.

The differences didn’t stop there.  After I arrived and met my stylist, I received a “consultation”, a head massage (it felt good, but I’m still ambiguous about this), and a shampoo (again, not sure what I think about somebody shampooing my head).  So there I was, already twenty minutes into my haircut, and no one had brandished any scissors.  Crazy!

Well, my stylist did eventually cut my hair, and I must say that it was certainly one of the best haircuts I’ve ever gotten.  I’m used to either:  1) coming home to finish it myself, or 2) going back to ask them to finish the job.  Seriously.

And the fun didn’t stop there, either.  They washed my hair again, dried it, and styled it.

Despite my initial anxiety, there were really only two bad things about the experience:  1) It cost about twice what I’m used to paying (guess I’ll have to go less frequently) and 2) my hair still smells a little like some herbal panda bear thing.

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I Hate Haircuts

Well, tonight I finally gave in and got a haircut.  It reminded me that I really hate haircuts.  That’s a little strange, because really, I like the feeling of having less hair on my head, especially during the summer, but that benefit doesn’t outweigh the negatives.

You see, I don’t go to a fancy haircut kind of place.  No, I go to the place down the street from my house, and every time I go in there, there’s usually someone new and a little frightening, and I’m talking about the employees.

There was this one lady who was kind of huge, and without intending to, a significant portion of her body was always in contact with me while she was cutting my hair.  Besides that, she worked me over like she was shearing a lamb (I think she had me in a headlock at one point).  Even when she used the trimmers, she did so with incredible force.  I could feel all the little plastic teeth of the guard etching along the surface of my skull, knowing that she would draw blood at any moment.  I’m pretty sure she viewed haircuts like a race (like roping calves in a rodeo), so the whole haircut only lasted about three minutes. I only had her a couple of times, but I always gave her a good tip (mostly prompted by fear).

There was another lady that looked like Elvira.  She stood outside smoking and then walked in behind me.  She smelled so strongly of cigarette smoke that I’m pretty sure I’ll get lung cancer in a few years just from the one exposure.

What’s really weirded me out lately is that tonight (and several nights in the past), when the person finished cutting my hair, she asked me how I wore it. Maybe that shouldn’t be strange to me, but it seems like she would remember what it looked like when she started cutting on my hair a few minutes before. I would think that would be helpful information for her while she was cutting my hair, not afterwards.

But probably the worst part about getting a haircut is that I always hope to walk out looking super awesome, like some movie star or something.  As if the $12 experience would somehow transform me into some rock-star-looking dude.  But instead, I walk out looking like myself, only with a bit less hair.

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