Wednesday, October 27, 2010

. . . which reminds me . . .

So, I went to get a hair cut about a month ago. I usually go to wacked-out-Freddie over in Chi-Town but I was lazy and it was hot and my finger was hurting so I went to the salon that's around the corner from my house instead.

threestoogesI mean, even if they fucked up my hair and I wound up looking like Moe, it would still be a win-win because the place is literally around the corner from my house. No driving to a shady part of town, no traffic, no parking hassles since I'd walk, no gangstas wanting to cap my ass [Brian? That means shoot me], win-win.

I walked into the salon, my appointment was with Paulo (real name) and he turned out to be a bleached blond semi attractive gay dude (I say “semi” because he’d look better with his natural hair color of what I’m assuming is black because Paulo is Mexican). I was having second thoughts due to his self inflicted dye job but I desperately needed a cut so I decided to back burner my worries.

Paulo sat me at the hair washing station and proceeded with the small talk.

Paulo: You live around here?

Me: Around the corner.

Then BAM! His next question kicks me in the jaw!

Paulo [as he's massaging shampoo into my scalp] :You know we also do eyebrow waxing here?

Me [hands immediately going to cover my eyebrows]: Uh, why do you ask? Are my eyebrows that bad??

Paulo: [5 seconds of silence] Nooooo. I was just letting you know.

So I sat in the shampooing chair, sobbing inside, wondering if I should let judgment-y Paulo do my brows. I was thisclose to saying yes but reason won out.

Me to myself "How about you let him do your hair first? If he fucks that up, you can wear a hat. If he fucks up your eyebrows, do you really want to wear an eyebrow wig? . . . Again?"


Me: You know, lets focus on my hair this first visit and we'll see how that goes?

Paulo: Okay.

Silence. Sweet sweet silence. Then another *BAM!*

Paulo [as he is now cutting my hair]: How many kids do you have?

Me [sweating]: Uh, none.

Paulo: You married?

Me [Holy shit! What’s with all the personal questions!]: Yep. 9 years.

Paulo: Is your husband a lot older than you?

Me [wondering if a cap in the ass hurts as much as this interrogation]: Nooo, he's actually 4 years younger than I am.

Paulo: How old are you? 30?

I Paulo!!

Me: 37. [15 more days until the big THREE EIGHT]

Paulo [his scissors making question marks in my hair]: Then why no kids?


Me: We decided not to have any---

Paulo [stops cutting, looks at my reflection and I wonder if I accidentally sat on a puppy]: Why??

Me: ::sigh:: Because we didn't think we could handle the responsibility. Besides I have 3 nieces and a nephew. We are set in the kids in our lives department.

Paulo: Is your husband Mexican too?

Me: No, he's a white boy.

Paulo: Ohhhh.

And his questions stopped. And my questions started.

Me: Why does that matter?

Paulo: You know Hispanic men. They want kids kids kids all the time. White guys not so much. A Mexican man would have made you have kids. You like your hair?

Me: Yes but, so we’re clear and if I become a regular you need to know this about me, no man makes me do anything. Well, unless he’s paying but that’s another story.

I can see from the look on his face he is beginning to think I’m weird. Me?

He did a good job on my hair. My only complaint (other than the assumption that boundaries are something we read about in fairy tales) is that he didn't cut my bangs short enough. So. Being the impulsive shit brain I am, I took the chicken-butcher scissors to myself again last night. I always forget it's a bad idea until the next day when I try to style it and I wind up looking like a transvestite who was attacked by an epileptic Hobo with pruning shears.


Today I came into work with my mini bangs brushed to the side and my hair up. Each time I went to the bathroom, I'd rearrange my hair to look less Betty Page on crack but it kept backfiring. Finally, when I noticed it looked like I was trying to rock a mullet, I gave up and decided to just stop looking in mirrors for the next 3 weeks. Who cares if I put my lipstick on my chin?

♫♪ Not me cuz I can’t see it! ♫♪

Also, maybe I should invest in actual hair stylist scissors and retire the chicken-butcher shears?


  1. Thank you so much for the laugh. I feel your pain I hate when my barber wants to make chit chat. One of the main reasons I keep my head shaved, and do it myself. For a long time I had the guy who took my head down to the wood convinced I could not speak english. Thank you for the big smile.

  2. There's a hair place across the road from my flat, which I suppose I ought to check out, but I daren't as its probably a women's place, so I'd either come out looking like a transvestite or worse, totally broke.

    I usually go to a Polish place called "British Barbers" or something similarly apt. They never ask you personal questions, probably due to the language barrier.

  3. "I went to the salon that's around the corner from my house instead. "

    Why didn't you facebook,, email or blog us Bee? We'd have told you not to do it.

    Mexican men, specially gay ones, are very judgmental about us mujeres marrying white guys, that's why I don't answer any questions, after the last one said to me "what? you couldn't find a Mexican man to marry you?"

  4. I can't say I have to divulge my personal affairs... my hairdresser ends up divulging hers... don't know which is worse?

  5. I guess my only question BEEutiful is... why would a gay guy care about other people having kids?

  6. YEE-IKES! Those personal questions are a bit much.

    Sorry about your bangs.

    At least you can put the mixing bowl away.

  7. well see, I have professional hair scissors and my hair always ends up looking, uh, like I cut it myself

    I got no advice-- I haven't been to get my hair cut since last November

  8. I have a sadistic streak, when total strangers start with the whole "why don't you have kids stuff" I tell them I can't, which is probably true, but not 100% confirmed since I've never tried. It does shut them up, though.

    RUDE. RUDE. RUDE. I admire your restraint.

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  10. Funny how someone can make you love them and hate them all within 60 seconds, hu? That was hysterical!

  11. Goodness! That hairdresser really asked one too many personal questions. I would have told him to mind his own business. OR, I would have come up with outrageous replies chock-full of lies!

    PS: Please stop cutting your own bangs!

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  14. I would have told him to mind his own business. OR, I would have come up with outrageous replies chock-full of lies, anyways thanx for all this.

  15. You are too funny! My hair dresser said to me once, while washing my hair "I am not letting you leave with that mustache!" Oh, the horror, I thought I could still get away with just bleaching. Before I could cry she had that sucker ripped off my face.
    I hate when I cut my own bangs too short, which is between every hair cut I get.


Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.