Haircuts and other reasons to consider suicide - by Douglas

Maybe I'm vain. No, I certainly am vain. But I don't think I'm overly particular about my hair style. I have a normal routine involving some leave-in conditioner and a few minutes with my favorite blow dryer (blue, collapsible, practical and powerful). I part on the left and when I'm through styling I run a hand through so I don't look too polished. And then I don't really pay much mind to my hair for the rest of the day.

But the minute I leave the house to go get my haircut I am flooded with panic and anxiety. I start going over my lines. "I'd like you to use a clipper with a number six guard on the sides and back up to about here." Then I do a non-threatening karate chop just above my temple to indicate where the clippers should stop. "About a half inch off the top and blend in between please." I have these two lines memorized. I designed them specifically to avoid any confusion between me and my stylist du jour. (Technically and Frenchly, they would be my stylist du mois.) If I were captured behind enemy lines I would recite by rote my name, rank, serial number, and how I'd like my hair cut.

It is not for nothing that I repeat these lines before my nightly prayers. I have a very tight aesthetic window I'm working with. Too long and I no longer fit my conservative, 40-year-old caucasian image. Too short and I spike like a pissy porcupine. Not to mention, too short and my many swirls and cowlicks begin to resemble a hurricane tracking map. My anxiety is well-founded.

But my two simple lines have been re-interpreted and misinsterpreted more than the Bill of Rights. Usually, the stylist or barber or hair coordination consultant (whatever) will begin just as I requested but then, like Wilson floating haplessly away from Tom Hanks' raft, they veer tragically off course. Sometimes they take the clippers up beyond the karate chop. At that point, it's too late. You can't blend that in with just a half inch off the top. You're looking at a full inch, minimum. Other times, they take off the half inch first then their "blending" gets a bit overzealous and next thing you know I look like a chinchilla going to a Billy Idol concert. Or sometimes they go off on a tangent and whip out the thinners that will guarantee a large percentage of my hair will be too short meaning some will lie down like I want and others will stand up like I use viagra-infused mousse.

I know what you're thinking - I should just find someone good and keep going to them. If only it were that easy. I've done that several times and each time, my carefully considered instructions eventually erode and are replaced by the imagination of whoever's holding the scissors. "I think a mullet would really accentuate this guy's chins," they must be thinking. Or, "I can surely outrun this guy. Let's try cutting him with my eyes crossed!" It's inevitable and, since it takes a while for me to trust these people, it is always painful and emotionally draining.

If I happen to misidentify a poor haircut as something that might stand up successfully against Pee Wee Herman or a televangelist, I am corrected by my wife and teenage daughter who are physically incapable of masking their body language. I'll walk in from a haircut and their lips will smile, then part, with no sound finding its way between them. First one ear will weigh more and their heads will tilt back and to the side. Then the other ear asserts itself and their heads tilt slowly the other way. When they finally can speak they'll generally say, "So, what do you think?" At that moment I know exactly what I think. "She really got your bangs right this time," they'll offer, like Pat Sajak telling me I'll get the Wheel of Fortune home game.

So I am stuck with a series of one-cut stands. I'll get their names and promise to call, but I never do. The last lady was pretty good but there is a noticeable hump over and behind my left ear. Great, now I'm quaffimodo.