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.
I 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?
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?
I HATE PAULO!
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.
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?