Haircut History

I left my office at five and drove to the mall: I needed a haircut. I treat my hair to a shortening once every two months, and I prefer someplace that isn't too expensive but maintains a respectable reputation filled with dignity and “pizzazz.” After giving the woman in front my name, I had to wait. I love waiting for a haircut, because while seated in the designated area, I silently scope the scene and mentally choose who I hope will cut my hair. That one woman looks like she has style; I'd place her in charge of my hair follicles. It looks like I could be friends with that other woman; I hope SHE cuts my hair. The woman I got stuck with this time was my very last choice in the room. She must have sensed this, because she gave me a humiliating haircut.

I grew up going to a barber. He was a neighbor of mine and a really nice older man. Unlike most older people, he didn't mind noise…in fact, he was elated to work on his garden or cut his grass while listening to my (often) feeble attempts at playing the loud drum set in my room. His noise acceptance earned himself a loyal customer--until I became a teenager. The problem with barbers is that instructions are pointless, for they give you the exact same haircut every time. Before the cut: “Can I have it spiked on the top, and slightly shorter on the sides?” After the cut: “Ohh…you gave me a regular men's haircut.--just what I wanted.”
During my teenage years, I cosmetologically experimented a bit. I was literally the first boy in my school to dye his hair blonde. Now I was a somewhat shy kid, but I enjoyed the attention. What eventually pissed me off was not the random older kids who taunted me by uttering “fag” in the hall as I passed (because streaked blonde hair and an earring automatically equals “fag” to redneck high schoolers). If anything, I appreciated their honesty, but three months later, those same kids streaked their hair too! This was unacceptable.
I abandoned blonde and tried orange, but it just wasn't 'controversial' enough for my tastes, so I sadly tried polluting my hair with non-permanent blue dye. The problem with non-permanent hair coloring is you shampoo it once and the hair transforms from a solid tone to a vomity-looking tint. I wasn't trying to be “punk” or even “cool”--that didn't interest me at the time. I simply possessed the whole “trying to be an individual” personality; except unlike punks or goths or any other sub-culture group who ironically fulfill their “individuality” by dressing like everyone else in their sub-cultured group, I decided to try and find my own thing.
I settled on short black-colored hair. It was a great move, and it suited me for years, but by the end of my freshmen year of college, the emo craze ruined yet another well-suited hair color. I tried a subtle red, but quickly decided that my hair coloring days were over.
There was also one very short time where I tried growing facial hair. I detested it. It was completely unstable and looked like tiny scattered brown pubic hairs barely growing across my face. I don't trust people with facial hair anyways (people who intentionally grow facial hair…not lazy folks who don't shave for a few days), so I decided early on that it's something I'll never pursue again.
Instead of coloring, I grew my hair out and settled for a semi-annual haircut. This shaggy look lasted two years until my thyroid disease began causing my hair to thin, so by the time my study abroad trip began, my haircut was depressingly semi-normal.

My thyroid disease is to blame for this horrible haircut I received at the mall, because the woman cutting my hair (she looked young, but admitted that she's almost forty) thought it would be a grand idea to talk about her thyroid problems while cutting. Bad call--for I think she concentrated more on coaxing medically-related information from me than she did on my haircut. I'm personally not a fan of conversing with hair stylists while they cut my hair. Though it makes the day go faster for them I'm sure, I'd rather they leave me alone. Don't get me wrong, talking to people, especially strangers, is really cool, but not when they have a job to do.
My sideburns weren't matching in length; the hair on the sides of my head was too short and didn't match the hair on the top. She didn't even ask me if I approved of the cut--she simply continued talking about her hypothyroid problems, even as we walked to the register. I tried many times to end the conversation, but she answered my attempts with more questions. If anything, she should have paid me, for she surely left the session with more insight and information than I did.
Of course I could have told her that I wasn't satisfied with the haircut, but then she would have cut even more off and make it worse--and it would have been shorter, which takes longer to grow back. As soon as I arrived home I grabbed a pair of scissors and a hair trimmer, locked myself in the bathroom, and finished the job.
I was fairly surprised with the job I did---it looks great! I even got positive comments on my new haircut. “It looks awesome! Who cut your hair?”