I got my haircut today: a grisly task that requires much mental preparation. Haircuts are a hit-or-miss affair, and most of the time you end up looking like a ridiculous man-boy. And even if by some miracle you’ve pleased the Gods enough to somehow incur a good haircut, it’s likely that some work jerk or another will give you shit for it. Even if he is balding. And has disgusting looking psoriasis on his exposed scalp.
So after a lot of childish whining, I sucked it up and went down and got my haircut. It hasn’t turned out too bad this time. Which is pretty good considering its likely to be the last haircut I have for at least 6 months. That’s my style by the way, cut hair really short, then wait several months until it gets long enough to annoy me. Thus limiting the hairdressing experience as much as possible.
Anyway, I’d probably marry a good hairdresser if I found one. It would make my life so much easier. I wouldn’t have to go through the psychological ordeal of going to the hairdresser, as I could get a cut in my own home. Also, she’d be awesome at it, so she could make me look halfway decent, and prevent me going into a hair-induced shame spiral. All sitting in the bath, biting down on the soap to hide your wails from your brothers in the next room.
Ooh, and she would tussle my hair, and give my scalp a good scratching. Man that feels good. There’s some sort of ancient genetic coding inside me that loves a good head scratch. Maybe I was a dog in a past life. Dogs have it pretty good.