Getting Your Hair Cut in Greenville, or Having a Horse Bang You....What's Worse?

I have a dilemma, I need a haircut. You see I call softball and the season is right around the corner. Just like any other job, you have to look the part, so for me that means putting on some of the most unflattering things alive. I'm talking smoke stack hats, and permanent crease pants. It's bad enough we have to listen to Daddy shout from the peanut gallery about how there is no need for me to be on my knees, but thanks to what I'm wearing I get to give him extra fodder to hound me with.

This brings me to the haircut. Right now I'm keeping it longer than usual but it looks shaggy and unprofessional when poofing out under my hat, so I need to get it cut. I'm scared though, because getting a hair cut in Greenville, Texas is like playing Russian roulette with a single shot .410, when it's over, your head is probably going to be fucked up.

It's like a time about 2 years ago when I went to see P's "stylist", if you want to call her that. It took some coaxing but she got me to agree to have her cut my hair. This woman is a piece of work, if she isn't on meth, well, she's moved on to Doctor prescribed happy pills, not to mention preaching about Jesus. She is flying a hundred miles an hour around my head, with a sharp object getting ever so close to my ears. I'm trying really hard not to think about Evander Holyfield right now, but the fact of the matter is, I'm expecting her to start calling me Tom Jones, cut off my ear, and start juggling it, a hair dryer, and a piece of bologna like the circus sideshow she is. The worst part of this whole thing is that while she's cutting, I have my glasses off. Now, I'm not totally blind. With my glasses off it's not like I'd be Stevie Wonder trying to drive a school bus, but images are fuzzy, and I can't monitor the progress. When she's done, I put my glasses on, and see that the instructions to "thin the sides", and "trim the top" probably weren't detailed enough for her. Now, I look like a Mexican being interviewed by Fox, after a drive-by shooting in South Oak Cliff. The only thing missing is that front isn't bleached and curled over like bangs. I hold my breath, calmly rise, exhale, and walk to the register, (it'll be ok Adam). I pay for it. As I drive home, I'm looking in the rear view mirror fuming at what I look like. Of course I calmly call P and tell her that I'm very disappointed with the out-come of my hair. (right)

I decided the only thing to do is to take matters into my own hands, so lucky for me I have my trusty "do-everything" cap so I go to Wal-Mart to buy some clippers. Ten dollars later I'm a man on a mission and on my way home. When I arrive I fail to back hand P when she laughs at my head and tells me "it'll grow out". Wonderful, all I have to wait is 4 to 6 weeks for it to be long enough to have the top cut back to match. Is it possible to hate and love someone at the same time? Next, I take out my trusty new clippers, and P freaks. "What are you doing with those"? You know, there is no such thing as a stupid question, only stupid people. She starts crying because she doesn't want me to shave my head, but since I don't have enough tear drops tattooed under my eye to "represent", I know what I have to do. I strip down and go sit in the bathtub and shave my head like a rape victim.....I'm not pretty anymore.

The last time I went to get my hair cut was at this fine Establishment called Carrie's Cuts. As I walked in Carrie was there and took me on. Since I had been growing my hair over the summer, I needed it cut because I was in the middle of football season. I told her to clean up the back, and leave a little over the ears. I mean I'm trying to look stylish and all, (yes I'm fucking vain) but I also want to be accepted on the sidelines in the flat-top world of coaching. So, I take off my glasses and she goes to work. When she's done I put my glasses on and see that she has not only seen a need to try and make me look like Lloyd Christmas, but is actually proud of what she has done. I hold my breath, calmly rise, exhale, and walk to the register, (it'll be ok Adam). I pay for it, but while I'm standing there I notice something.......tapered jeans......keds......nugget rings.......these were the things that she and her employees were wearing. Now I'm perplexed, I'm not sure what to feel, I'm horrified.

These people can't be more than five or so years older than me, why do they look like they hit the clearance pavilion in Canton? Don't they watch TV; do they see what's going on in the world of fashion? Why aren't they keeping up? Are they *gulp* old? They can't be, they're only five or so years older than me. Then I feel those cold fingers of death's grip crawling up my back as I leave. I go and sit in my car, in silence. I'm almost to their age, am I going to look like that? Is there a switch that pops on when you live in BFE and hit 30? When do you quit being cool? At this point my hair is meaningless, now my only thoughts are on self preservation.

Since this was in October of last year, I've had a lot of time to think about it, and I've come to the realization that they just don't care. These people will probably be seen being surgically removed from a couch on Montel Williams since their skin has grown into the fabric. That’s who these people are, they're not me, and I refuse to loose my "cool". It's not like I'm going to go out and dress like K-Fed, cause lets face it, he probably wanted to name his kid Newport, and that's not cool. However, it seems that it doesn't take a lot of work to look like you've bought a pair of jeans since 1991.

So here I sit, 3 months later, my hair is longer, and I need it cut in three weeks. Since I read a news paper article about a man in Washington who died from a perforated intestine after taking third input from a horse, looks like I need to find a good barber.

Question answered, Horse is definitely worse.