(no subject)
I know I haven't been posting for like months, but this bears telling.
I'm heading down to DC today for a hiring conference. Any of you DC folks, if you would like to eat some dinner with me , give me call. I'll be at the Sheraton in Alexandria till Friday afternoon. Sorry for the late notice.
Anywho, the real story.
My trials of finding some person who cuts my hair well has been long documented. No one ever gets it quite right. Lou was too drunk. Jen in Troy was good, but she didn't shave the neck close enough. The barbershops here, one always cuts it too close, and the other is an old guy who has shaky hands and that scares me. We won't even go into the debacle that was the $40 trim I got in Vegas from the foreign lady for Shawn's wedding. ("We did it, preh-shooss! We feekst yord haird!")
I have had various amounts of success at Super Cuts, and since I was in the neighborhood I went again.
The lady tried to be chatty, but I'm not a talker while getting my hair cut. This probably stems back to when my stepfather used to cut it back when I was a kid at 6am, and I would be pretty much sleeping. I told her the usual numbers, and zoned out. I take a 1 on the sides and fade it up, and use an 8 on the top to make it about an inch. This is, by the way, perhaps the easiest haricut you can ask for.
I took a look when she was finished. Something didn't quite look right, but this is normal when I get a haircut. I can never quite figure it out, so I grudgingly pay, and it is not until the next day when I get out of the shower that I realize what I don't like.
This usually involves me using my own clippers to trim down the top so it's all even.
Today was a similar story. I wet my hair down before hopping in the shower. I mussed it this way and that, and something seemed amiss. I could not figure it out for the life of me. Then I mussed towards the middle and it dawned on me, in horrible 1080i, high definition clarity.
That fucking bitch. That fucking whore. That fucking strumpet. That fucking no talent waste of human DNA, breathing all my oxygen, your oxygen, our oxygen, but most definitely not hers because she does not deserve to live...
That bitch had cut my hair into a fucking Faux Hawk.
The day before I go to find a job, and I look like a 30 year old poseur trying to be an eighteen year-old douche bag. All I needed was a popped collar and some male capris pants and I would officially be able to look in the mirror and blow my head off without remorse.
Faux Hawk, indeed.
I spent about 15 minutes with the clippers and have corrected the issue. I almost figured I would have to shave it all off, and that is not the look I'm going for at a hiring conference.
But it's better than a gawd damn faux hawk.
I'm heading down to DC today for a hiring conference. Any of you DC folks, if you would like to eat some dinner with me , give me call. I'll be at the Sheraton in Alexandria till Friday afternoon. Sorry for the late notice.
Anywho, the real story.
My trials of finding some person who cuts my hair well has been long documented. No one ever gets it quite right. Lou was too drunk. Jen in Troy was good, but she didn't shave the neck close enough. The barbershops here, one always cuts it too close, and the other is an old guy who has shaky hands and that scares me. We won't even go into the debacle that was the $40 trim I got in Vegas from the foreign lady for Shawn's wedding. ("We did it, preh-shooss! We feekst yord haird!")
I have had various amounts of success at Super Cuts, and since I was in the neighborhood I went again.
The lady tried to be chatty, but I'm not a talker while getting my hair cut. This probably stems back to when my stepfather used to cut it back when I was a kid at 6am, and I would be pretty much sleeping. I told her the usual numbers, and zoned out. I take a 1 on the sides and fade it up, and use an 8 on the top to make it about an inch. This is, by the way, perhaps the easiest haricut you can ask for.
I took a look when she was finished. Something didn't quite look right, but this is normal when I get a haircut. I can never quite figure it out, so I grudgingly pay, and it is not until the next day when I get out of the shower that I realize what I don't like.
This usually involves me using my own clippers to trim down the top so it's all even.
Today was a similar story. I wet my hair down before hopping in the shower. I mussed it this way and that, and something seemed amiss. I could not figure it out for the life of me. Then I mussed towards the middle and it dawned on me, in horrible 1080i, high definition clarity.
That fucking bitch. That fucking whore. That fucking strumpet. That fucking no talent waste of human DNA, breathing all my oxygen, your oxygen, our oxygen, but most definitely not hers because she does not deserve to live...
That bitch had cut my hair into a fucking Faux Hawk.
The day before I go to find a job, and I look like a 30 year old poseur trying to be an eighteen year-old douche bag. All I needed was a popped collar and some male capris pants and I would officially be able to look in the mirror and blow my head off without remorse.
Faux Hawk, indeed.
I spent about 15 minutes with the clippers and have corrected the issue. I almost figured I would have to shave it all off, and that is not the look I'm going for at a hiring conference.
But it's better than a gawd damn faux hawk.