I don’t care if they’re offering free haircuts and giving out $100 bills: DO NOT GET YOUR HAIR CUT AT GREAT CLIPS. It took me 3 or 4 truly heinous haircuts to really realize this, and I feel it’s my obligation to pass it along.
I’m willing to admit that it could just be the Twin Oaks, Missouri Great Clips location, but I’d rather be safe than sorry (again).
I ended up going to another place, pleading with them to fix my most recent hair disaster. You’re probably asking yourself why I didn’t more clearly express my displeasure while I was getting my hair cut the first time around. I’m asking myself the same question (while kicking myself–hard). Part of me just assumed that the stylist was just styling it differently than I would: she used about a pound of mousse, then wax, THEN hairspray to finish it off. I figured I could go home, wash all the shit out of my hair, and fix it the way I wanted.
No such luck–so off to Custom Cuts I went. The stylist did a tremendous job of salvaging the over-razored poof ball but had to go short…like WAY short… in the process.
I normally don’t really give a shit about my hair. I mean, I want it to look nice, but I usually don’t care if I get a so-so haircut. “It’s just hair,” I think. “It’ll grow.” So I just brush it out or pull it back or do whatever I can to make it look okay.
But now my hair is short. Like middle-aged woman who wears snowman sweaters short. Like hairy armpitted lesbian human rights protester short. And there’s not much I can really DO with it.
There are worse things (much worse things, just ask the aforementioned hairy- armpitted lesbian), so I really ought to just get a life and move on. Except every time I walk past a mirror, I don’t even recognize myself. “Who is this fifth grade teacher looking back at me?” I wonder. “And why the fuck did she let someone do that to her hair?”
Maybe I’ll just shave it off and start over.
*Hair, that is.