I’m coming off a really bad haircut, guys. You know, the kind where the hairstylist decides to go the “please chop off twelve inches and make me look androgynous” route? The kind where you can only stare gloomily into the mirror and contemplate universal suffering? The kind that just can’t grow back fast enough? That's the kind of haircut I am currently recovering from.
So that we may all commiserate as fellow victims of the infamous Really Bad Haircut, behold the following steps:
Stage One: The Pre-Haircut Excitement. This is going to look awesome. I mean, it looked good on Mila Kunis, so I’m sure the same principles hold true for me. Hm. I’m hearing a lot of snipping. Why am I hearing so much snipping? Craning my head to look and—oh, sorry. Yeah, I’ll stop fidgeting. (But that is a lot of snipping.)
Stage Two: The Moment of Truth. And we’re done! Turning back to face the mirror… and—the chair’s stuck, but don’t worry about it, Lisa the Unhelpful Hairdresser, I’ve got this—and now we’re turning, and… oh. Oh my God. Oh my GOD. What is this? Is that a dead animal perched on my head? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, LISA? WHAT THE #$%& HAVE YOU DONE?
Stage Three: The Aftermath. I’ve actually created a new word to describe my anger. I call it rage-fuming. It’s meant to describe a level of all-consuming rage that scorches your innards with twelve different varieties of hellfire. I mean, seriously, does “I just want a trim” really mean, in the secret underground society of hair maintenance, that I want her to lob off a foot of hair and make a wig out of it for underprivileged hobos? But look on the bright side—at least I got to pay oodles of cash for a haircut that makes me look like a hermaphroditic pageboy. I hate you, Lisa. I am making a voodoo doll of you, Lisa, and I’m throwing it in front of an oncoming semi.
Stage Four: The Shut-In Phase. Sobbing. I am sobbing hysterically. That’s it, people. Life’s over. Get your duffel bags and nonperishables and head for the nearest underground bunker, because a haircut this bad shouldn’t be allowed to exist. It’s clearly a sign that the apocalypse is coming. In other news, I’ve recently eschewed all human interaction. It’s just easier this way. Now I don’t have to preface every conversation with a disclaimer: “Yes, I got a haircut. No, this was not what I had in mind. Yes, in fact I have considered just walking around with a bag over my head but at this point I’m actually looking forward to dying alone. Thanks for asking.” I’m considering getting a wig. I wear hats even in my sleep. Sometimes for fun I sit and stare at the wall and whisper, “Where did it all go wrong?”
Stage Five: And Now We’ve Come Full-Circle. Okay, WHAT? I woke up this morning, accidentally glanced in the mirror en route to my daily five-hour sob fest, and my hair looked… acceptable? What is this blasphemy? When did this happen? Did Lisa sneak in through the window at night and fix it? Is she a wizard? Should I do something about the five hundred crickets I let loose in her car? Better yet… should I go back? Maybe she could do something with my bangs…
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