One of the best things in the world: as a boy, to find a hair under your arm
One of the worst things in the world: as a man, to find a hair on your back
Even worse: as anyone, to find a hair in your salad at a restaurant

The other day I went to Sally Beauty Supply.  This is the store where budding cosmetologists shop and swap stories.  It is also where I have to go every once and again to acquire supplies for the Keigley Barber Shop.  That’s right, I cut hair.  Though I do cut hair, I am not keen on going to Sally Beauty Supply.  When I do go, I feel like a poser, I feel inadequate and sometimes I feel like a girl.

I entered the store looking for certain kind of tool — thinning shears.  I had cut Bergen’s hair earlier that day and I’d thought that those scissors would prove useful on his little mug.  I looked around and an overdone woman (makeup-wise) looked up at me and asked if she could be of service.  I told her that she could be of service and I explained my mission.  She then directed me to the specialty scissors.  As I made my way to those tools, I looked around the store — flat-irons, blow dryers, hair extension supplies and the like abounded.  She pointed out three different products of varying prices.  I grabbed the mid-priced pair.

I then made my way to the counter and she asked me a question.

“Do you have a Sally Beauty Card?”

I laughed uproariously.  How could I have a Sally Beauty Card?  I mean, Sally is a store for girls and their hairdressers.  Sally is a place that I would never go let alone require some sort of frequent shopper card.

My fit of hilarity was cut short as the overdone woman slowly raised her eyes and looked at me — almost pitifully.  It was then that I realized these things:
1.  Sally Beauty was where she worked and where she gave me great service
2.  Judging by her overdone look, she made use of Sally’s products
3.  I was standing in the store purchasing goods, so who the heck am I?

I gave her my money and walked out with my head hanging low.  I thought of how much of a chump I was, and also…how great this story will be for my blog.

As I looked into the mirror today one last time, I proceeded to cut my own hair.  I used scissors.  I used a pink comb that I found in the bottom of a drawer.  Prior to my self-haircut, I actually had what was the beginning of dude-bangs.  Thanks again Ruby.  As I watched the hair fall, it took me back to a moment in my life where I had to have looked like an escaped mental patient.

It was back in Virginia.  One hot summer day, I decided that my hair was getting too long.  Being alone at the time and not wanting to drive 45 minutes into town, I decided to cut my own hair.  So, I grabbed the necessary tools — electric trimmers, extension cord and a giant mirror.  I was only wearing my boxer shorts as I stood out on the deck that balmy day.  I positioned the mirror in a rocking chair and began to shave off piles of hair.  The hair was clinging to my body.  I was blindly shaving my head.  I began to laugh at the atrocious clump of hair still clinging desperately to my scalp.  It was then that it hit me — I looked like a sweaty-toothed madman.  There I was, covered in my own hair, trimmers in hand, laughing hysterically as I looked into a mirror…while wearing only boxer shorts.  Despite my revelation, I finished the job, got showered and then immediately made an appointment to have my haircut for real the next day.

Today, I didn’t feel as crazy — I was wearing pants.

I recently got a haircut.  I have frequented this establishment many times before, but this time I got Ruby — a woman of extreme southern heritage.  I have had many good experiences at this particular hair cuttery — until now.

As I entered, my ears were immediately filled with the sounds of Ruby verbally destroying a co-worker who was not present.  I gave them my name and waited.  After 10 minutes or so, Ruby approached the cosmetologist podium and belched my name.  I say belched because that is what she literally did the entire time she cut my hair.  She also had a fit of the hiccups which caused her belly to bounce against me as I sat trapped in her chair.  She blamed her gastro-problems on what she referred to as her “fresh Pepsi”.  I don’ t even know what that means, but I will never order it from a fast food joint if it is on the menu.

She continued to cut my hair — combing with such violence that with one stroke she was able to move my hair creating a part that looked as though it was made with a laser.  She also assaulted me with mediocre questions that ended with prepositions.

When she was apparently finished, she told me to run my hands through my hair and then asked me how it felt.  It felt fine.  She then whipped off the giant bib I was wearing and then walked away leaving behind the thin piece of white material that serves some purpose.  It was clinging desperately to my Adam’s apple before I pulled it off and wiped the piles of hair from my kneecaps.  My haircut was ridiculous.

At the cosmetologist podium I waited with my debit card to pay but she was too busy running her co-worker into the ground again.  After a good 3 minutes, she took my card and swiped it.  $11.  I tipped her $4 hoping that the next poor soul might find Ruby in better spirits.  Good luck Next Guy.