Adventures in Hairstyling - Part Two

He was wearing a Puma t-shirt, black with white letters, tucked into his stonewashed jeans. The stubble along his temples gave away his sculpted hairline, revealing that his natural born one didn't seem to meet his criteria for what Beautiful Hair should look like.

And then, of course, there was the gold chain. *

Around his wrist.

Really, in hindsight, I should have just run.

Just let Jenny finish me off with the toenail scissors. **

But, by this point, I was already in the chair - long before I realized what was happening.

See, they were offering cheap haircuts. And me? Well, my financial resources haven't been increasing lately so much as rapidly evaporating. So - cheap haircut it was.

Back to me. Sitting. Terrified.

My appointment had been scheduled the day before and I was already having reservations about the plan then. I had waited a few days after my Toenail Scissor Trimming and things seemed to be just fine. But, I was looking for jobs and desperately in need of some of the mop being cut off.

We walked in the day before and asked for an appointment. The middle-aged, olive-skinned woman with the bad dye job said there wasn't time then but I could schedule an appointment for the next morning at 10. I then went about psyching myself up for what I was sure would be an awful haircut at the hands of this woman.

But, no. Not her. No. Instead, it was him. Something else entirely.

In my defense, I didn't actually know what was happening until it was too late. We arrived on time for the appointment and took a seat. The woman with the bad dye job was cutting an older woman's hair. There was a younger girl there too, who looked like she was probably the woman's daughter, getting another seat ready. I breathed a sigh of relief, figuring she would be the one to cut my hair.

I barely registered the guy, now standing by the counter, fixing the credit card printer and taking off his black leather jacket.

They told me to take a seat. While sitting there, I watched the girl take another customer to her seat and start working on her hair. I was a bit confused.

Then he walked up.

We quickly discovered that he was the only hairdresser in all of Sweden who did not speak English (well, there's Sven, but he's 87 and only does "High and Tight" do's for the elderly gents of Gullspång). Jenny started translating what I wanted while the cold sweats were setting in.

I already have a hard enough time explaining what I want to a native English-speaking hairdresser (just ask Meighan). I am incredibly vague, horribly picky, and never use anything as a reference. But now I was communicating what I wanted in English (using words Jenny openly admits she doesn't entirely understand what they mean - like "shaggy") to an English-as-a-second-language speaker who was now translating that, in as close a way as possible, into Swedish for a I-really-hope-Swedish-is-your-second-language speaker. My head was starting to spin while I tackled the math involved in figuring out how many times the instructions were being Xeroxed - copy of a copy of a copy. The end of the line in this bad game of telephone was the guy with the gold bracelet and sharp pointy things pointed at my head.

My knees shook a little.

While the instructions were being passed along, I had a bit too much time to look around. Apparently Barber Cleanliness Standards in Sweden aren't quite what they are in America. I soon found myself counting the number of different hair colors and types I could see caught in the scissors and comb and electric razor. Never have I missed the sight of giant jars of bright blue Barbicide so much.

Jenny stopped talking and he seemed satisfied with the directions provided while I considered taking the opportunity to politely run for the exit.

Run with dignity, if you will.

But I didn't.

And he cut. And cut. And cut.

Very quickly.

Just grabbing fingerfuls of hair.

And cutting.

At first, Jenny watched from the sidelines. I could see her out of the corner of my eyes. I looked at her. Pleaded for her to do something to make this all better.

After a little while, I noticed she had buried her face behind a magazine. It seemed she could bear it no more.

He finished the cutting quite quickly. Then reached for the thinning shears. And cut more. Quickly. And quite deep this time.

In the end, when compared with other haircuts I have been unhappy with, this one does not rank nearly as bad as many others. However...

That still doesn't mean I don't feel ridiculous.

I went home after paying my 99 krowns (by far the cheapest haircut I will find here) and immediately showered to try and wash away the bits of hair from a dozen other people that I could feel in my hair.

The next day, I was running my hand through my hair and felt a strange bristle.

"No..." I thought.

So I checked some more.

Oh yes.

All throughout my hair, it felt like I had a buzz cut. Hairs a single centimeter long in straight rows. From where he used the thinning shears so deep and low. So, spread out over my head are hairs, randomly, anywhere between 1/2 to 4 inches long.

I should have stopped at the gold chain.

__________________________________

* I would like to sincerely apologize to anyone who wears Puma shirts (tucked in), stonewashed jeans, gold chains, and sculpted hairlines. But, c'mon, seriously?

** Regarding the many complaints I received about not posting a picture of The Toenail Scissor Haircut (and now The Gold Chain 'Do), it was only because I failed to take a picture of either. I hope you know I try my very hardest to destroy whatever remains of my dignity in each and every one of these entries. I really do.

To help make amends, I am posting a picture of myself from earlier today, upon waking up from a nap - which was immediately preceded by a shower.

You're welcome.

Adventures in Hairstyling - Part One

It started, like most misadventures from my past, with a simple sentence -

"How hard can it be?"

Now, I was used to hearing this sentence come out of Natius' mouth. And the sentence often dealt with some sort of car repair or Fat Jeff Challenge.

I was unaccustomed to hearing it from Jenny.

I looked at her as steadily as I could, keeping calm, as the lessons I had learned regarding bear attacks flashed through my mind. But it was too late. She smelled the fear.

"What's the matter? Don't you trust me?"

I tried to relate my position on the matter. Not that she wasn't already aware.

I am obsessed with my hair. Not in the sit-in-front-of-the-mirror-with-a-blowdryer-and-gobs-of-gel kind of way but more in the way that I think I look ridiculous and avoid haircuts at all costs.

I suppose it relates a lot to the way I'm a perfectionist. Not the "good" kind - the kind of person that just has to do something perfect and keeps trying until that is achieved. No... I'm the kind of person that feels like it has to be done perfectly and if I don't think that can be accomplished, I just don't bother with it.

Yeah, like that.

So, I put off haircuts as long as I can most times, readily accepting the fact that with each passing month I look more and more ridiculous. It also gets worse as my hair mysteriously becomes more and more curly/wavy with each passing year.

Computer estimated appearance of me at age 60.

The end result of all this is that I end up with what appears to be a giant wig on my head after a couple months. Yet, for some unexplainable reason, I still resist getting a haircut.

So, there we are, sitting in the living room. Jenny daring me to let her have a go at the mop residing on top of my head.

For some reason, as a way of entertaining the thought, I asked her what she was planning to cut my hair with should I decide to give in to her demands. She disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and then emerged, wielding a giant hairbrush and a tiny pair of toenail scissors.

I coughed and choked out a response about how she had to be kidding. She shook her head solemnly and again insisted that she was up to the task. I pointed out that she didn't even have a comb and she disappeared for another moment, popping back into view and telling me she now had a comb.

It wasn't a comb.

It was just a smaller brush.

The "tools"

Needless to say, I wasn't too keen on the idea.

She continued to push, insisting I could trust her. She chose to start arguing logic (or a close relative of logic), pointing out that I was planning to get my hair cut anyway and it was quite long so I could always get it fixed the next morning if necessary.

I started out strong and resistant but gradually weakened.

Next thing I knew, I was outside on our balcony, towel wrapped around my neck, and water being brushed into my hair.

Snip. Snip.

It began.

I wanted to cry.

But I am strong.

"Are you grumpy?"

I shook my head no, trying to conceal how upset I was about getting tricked into the chair. How did I let this happen to me? Why am I convinced to do stupid things so easily?

I loudly pointed out that the hair falling into my lap was much longer than the one centimeter we had agreed upon. Looking at me calmly as one would a four-year-old, she asked if I wanted her to just stop. I quietly shook my head and let her continue.

My main concern was that I was going to be angry. See, I had planned on being angry anyway... after I went to a barbershop. But now she was cutting my hair. Sure, I was planning to go to a barber the next day. But now I was afraid I wouldn't be mad at the barber. No, I was feeling pretty sure I would still be mad at her after the barber. Because now it would be her fault I had to go to the barber to get a bad haircut.

Really, it's all because I'm crazy.

But that doesn't change anything.

So, I sat. And moped. And pouted. And waited for it to be awful.

And in the end...

It wasn't bad.

Of course, I was still going to get a regular haircut.

But that's another story altogether...

I Made It!

Well... almost.

Tomorrow marks my official survival of The 27 Club.

Of course, it certainly helped by not being a musician.

And by avoiding the whole "being famous" thing.

But, nonetheless, a victory in my eyes.

Twenty-seven is a pretty great number. It's a perfect cube of the most perfect number, 3x3x3 (just ask Tesla). It's the first appearance of Batman. It's the whole nine yards...

It has also been a big year.

I remember a conversation with a coworker at Trader Joe's not long after turning twenty-six. She told me that twenty-seven was an important number and that a lot of things in my life would change while approaching it and especially during that special year. I didn't think much of it at the moment, having grown, at that particular time, somewhat numb to the kind of wisdom San Franciscans tended to share. But, as I look back, I realize it was very true.

I would say that the time since that conversation in the break room of SF's finest grocery store (almost two years!) was especially life changing, the end result of which is being here, in Sweden. Perhaps I always expected to have done more by this time. Made some important contribution to the world. A book, a work of art, scientific advancement... something. You know, somehow fulfilling one of my many delusions of grandeur while at the same time managing to continue nurturing a crippling sense of self-doubt.

But I realize I have done a lot. And I'm happy. And that feels great. And it's time to work towards not being so unrealistic and selfish and ridiculous.

Time to grow up, I suppose. I'm starting to get old. I'm plummeting towards thirty.

(Apologies to all those out there who have already reached and surpassed that wonderful age - but I hope you will understand, having been in my position in the past, and will accept my lack of acceptance regarding what I am currently viewing as a chrono-handicap. For all those who did not struggle with this - kudos, congratulations, and applause for handling the act of aging in a mature and dignified manner. I am but a child mentally and still laugh at poop jokes.)

So, I am ready to begin a new year. With new accomplishments.

Namely, contributing more to this blog. Just to be writing again.

Besides, third time's a charm.