My DD214

Veterans should be a thing of the past.

Beard Psychosis Envy

Oh, my friend, how I envy the fact that you are living in a city large enough to support a decent barber. Haircuts (and the maintenance of facial hair, by necessity) have become an obsession of mine. I simply cannot handle getting a bad haircut, which is emotionally crippling when facing the fact that I cannot seem to pay anyone to give me a good one. This is a fairly recent development, I think. I was somewhat vain when I entered the service of my government, but the constant preening and primping attitude of the Marine Corps pushed me over the line, and made an official narcissist out of this once-humble small-town boy.

I have finally found salvation, though. Understanding my redemption, however, will require a short story.

I went on Friday to get a trim. Nothing major, just a quick touch-up. My main concern was my sideburns, which had grown ridiculously long. Leaving the house was my first mistake. I should have left well enough alone. Mistake #2 was going to Pro Cuts for said haircut. The basic gist of it is that the bitch with the scissors was blind and stupid. I told her exactly what I wanted, using my patented brand of English for the Stupid, which uses only short, simple words and is spoken in a slow and measured tempo. I took the ray of sunlight which temporarily pierced the fog of ignorance surrounding her as a sign that my words had gotten through. I was horribly, and tragically, mistaken.

This woman should be barred for life from ever practicing any sort of cosmetic art in this nation. She made me look like the god-awful spawn of Elvis and Vanilla Ice. I hate her.

The unfortunate thing is, I didn’t notice that anything was wrong, at least for about ten minutes. Then I made Mistake #3- I looked into a reflective surface. This is where it all went to shit. After ranting and raving to an amused Wife (bless her heart, she was trying not to laugh. The hilarious aspects of this hell-cut had not escaped my sharp eye for comedy, but at the time I was too pissed off to find it very funny) for about fifteen minutes, I went in a quest into the heart of Deepest Weatherford, in search of a Barber.

We are not talking about a “stylist” here. We are talking about a Barber. One who cuts men’s hair only, whose shop smells of cigars and Old Spice, and whose television (or transistor radio) is always tuned to sports. I was looking for my childhood Barber, Mr. Wooten.

I thought for years that the old guy retired and was spending his days whittling shards of mesquite branches into dust at the local coffee shop. Fortunately, I had noticed earlier in the day that Mr. Wooten was still in business, albeit at a different location than I remembered. I walked into the shop with hope in my heart for the first time in 30 minutes.

I’m afraid that’s all there is to the story. Mr. Wooten fixed my haircut. No, he made improvements. Of course he did, the old fart’s a pro. He made it look better in less time than it took for the dumb broad to fuck it up. He’s got a regular customer now. I like the place, and he’s good…

But, oh! For a straight-razor wielding bilingual Dominican Barber!

17 January, 2006 5:45 PM - Posted by | Just a thought..

1 Comment »

  1. Damn! What I would have given for photographs of the fucked up, pre-Wooten haircut. Too late now.

    Comment by Fernando | 17 January, 2006 6:27 PM | Reply

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