Everytime I go get a haircut, I feel like I'm being interrogated. Someone's got a scissors to your head and they're asking you questions. A lot of questions.
And it's always questions I don't know the answer to, like "is it it still nice outside?" I don't know! Who cares, bitch? You're in here, working. You won't see the light of day for hours. It'll be dark out when you leave. Plus, how do you expect me to remember the weather? I walked from my apartment to my car and my car to the ‘salon.' I was outside for like two minutes, tops. It was either raining or it wasn't. There's your weather report.
Or it's like "do anything exciting this weekend?" Yeah, I probably did some exciting stuff this weekend, but it's pretty blurry when I try to remember and I think it involves vodka, snuff, fellatio, broken glass, and a refrigerator. In that order. I can't remember what I did two minutes ago, let alone this past weekend, when I was hammered out of my mind. Or they'll be like "so how old are you?" Who thinks about that? Who knows how old they are? It always takes me like 20 seconds to remember how old I am, and then I look like a fucking idiot.
Or "so how would you like your hair today?" I don't know. That's your job. Cut it. Just cut it. I'm not the hair expert, you are.
And it's like the minute you turn the tables on them, all of a sudden, game over. Like they can ask you where do you go to school, oh, what dorm do you live in. But the minute I say what's your address? Or you ever give a guy a happy ending after a haircut? Want to? The minute that happens everything changes. It's like hairstylists are robots programmed to ask questions only and give one-word responses back to your answer. And if you ask them a question, their circuits start exploding and sparks start flying out and it's just not good, trust me.
Another depressing thing is my hairstylist got less hot since this particular one cut my hair back in October. It's like last time I was stroking away under that cape they put over you to catch hair. This time I couldn't even get it up.
And her stomach was grumbling. No matter where I go to get my hair cut or who's cutting my hair, their stomach always grumbles right by my fucking ear. Same with my dentist or dental assistant. What the fuck? Eat some food! (Unless you're fat.)
Lately, I've seen these places popping up like Sports Clips. Haircut places for men where you get to watch SportsCenter and supposedly hot girls cut your hair. Here's an idea for a revolutionary new haircut place: Put duct tape over the hairstylists' mouths and a paper bag over their head.