John, or Paul, or George... Maybe Ringo
June 13th, 2006Last night, I got my hair cut by Kenny, the gay chinese stylist. My friend brought me. translated "cut four inches off, exact same style" and then left. I hadn't had a haircut in 4 months, so I thought this would do the trick, especially as Kenny came highly recommended.
I found that Kenny likes to cut and cut and cut. He likes layers. He likes old men. I had no way to stop Kenny as I did not see him (glasses were off) and I can not speak enough chinese to direct him anyway, so I looked a little more mature and with a lot shorter hair than I was comfortable with.
So I called my friend, "Help! Tell Kenny it's too clean. Make it a little choppy." Realize that the translation from a western language to an asian language was required for this little game. Then throw in the "my Chinese friend with a decent but not flawless grasp of the english language was in the middle of a business meeting with a new client" variable... If you've ever played telephone as a kid, you can let your mind wander creatively as you try to imagine what Kenny must have been told.
Kenny began to cut again. He cut alot. Then he cut some more. "He was a professional," I thought. "Just Let him do his work. Close your eyes and it will all be over soon."
Anyway... it's choppy
(Please, someone tell me I'm still beautiful)
Even though I saw it and died inside, I was still under the impression that it must have looked good to someone due to Kenny's high recommendation and implied skill. So I tipped him well, tried to smile and be gracious, and left the salon in a stupor... trying to like it, trying not to care.
Seven stories of escalators with mirrored walls later, I was panicked.
I waited for my friend in the front of the mall, curled up in a ball seated on the edge of the planter trying not to look too tragic. My friend, the event planner who is way too cool for me, showed up and smiled, but I could tell. She looked left. And there was a nervous twitch, a tightening of her jowels and a quick gulp of shame hidden beneath her smile.
She called me a "girl" during dinner due to my incessant whining (which I thought I was being rather manly and tactful about), but I could tell she was compensating, she felt guilty. She kept looking down or away. I joked about it to make her less uncomfortable, and she told me a similar story about her boyfriends hair, which she still feels resonsible for... Ah, relived guilt compounded by my situation... excellent! Someone should suffer for this tragedy!
The next morning, I gave up and trying to part it or push it out of my face and it became the mop you see above. I went online and moaned to some girlfriends, who were very supportive (and thats all I really need, beautiful women telling me I'm a fine man). so I got brave enough to go out for lunch.
