Mr. Clippy’s Miraculous Vacuu-Cut!

The dreaded time has arrived.

I need a haircut.

A few years back, when I was living in northern Jersey, getting a haircut was no big deal. I had the perfect hairstylist. Her name was Linda and I was in love. She was a bit of Jersey girl, sure, but she had cool tattoos (as opposed to, y’know, sailor tattoos) and a decidedly non-Jersey girl coif. And she was cute. Did I already say she was perfect? Anyway, she was not only fun to talk to, but she’d also do exactly what I wanted, haircut-wise: Extremely tight in the back and on the sides, and just a little bit off the top. Simple. She’d massage my scalp with a little shampoo, shave me like a sheep (using a #2 clipper attachment, if I recall correctly), then take a little off the top and send me on my way. Then I could ignore her for 6 to 8 months, and the next time I made an appointment it would be like catching up with an old friend.

Then I moved.

For two and a half years I’ve been searching for a decent hairstylist. The first guy who cut my hair (actually on the day before I started my new job) didn’t use scissors. He uses only the electric clippers, with some of the weirdest attachments I’ve ever seen. It’s a system, I suppose but, I’m sorry--it reminds me of the infomercial for that Vacuu-Cut thing you’re supposed to attach to your vacuum when you want to cut someone’s hair.

When he was done he said to me, “I bet you’ve never had your hair cut that way before!” True enough. And I really didn’t want it to be cut that way ever again. Don’t get me wrong, my hair looked fine when he was done with it, but it was still a little too long and it looked a little too uniform in its length. Basically, it just didn’t seem like something for which I should be paying $25.

[An aside: At the time I mentioned this to a friend of mine, and she said, “Twenty-five dollars?!? What the hell are you bitching about?” Apparently women spend a shitload of money on haircuts. I did not know this, but Tara’s pretty much made sure I’ll never forget...]

The other problem was that I think this guy is the owner of the salon, but I’m not 100 percent sure--so I didn’t know if I should tip him or not. It made for an awkward moment at the cash register:

MR. CLIPPY: Okay, that’ll be $25.
ME: [look in wallet, see a $20 and two $5's] Okay... [hesitate before pulling out $30, finally relent and hand it to him] Here you go. Um, thanks.
MR. CLIPPY: [gives me a look that could signify either appreciation or contempt--I honestly couldn’t be sure which] Have a nice day.
ME: [nod curtly, turn around, and sprint all the way to my car]

As I’m sure you can imagine, I’d really rather not suffer through that exchange again.

So the next time around I called for an appointment and asked which women were available. Perhaps this is a stereotypical assumption on my part, but every woman who’s ever cut my hair has known what she was doing and did an excellent job--even if she’d never “met” my hair before, if you know what I mean. So I figured asking for a woman was a foolproof plan. This time, though, the gods of haircare proved me wrong.

I had made an appointment with a woman whose real name eludes me, since I have referred to her only as The Butcher ever since I left her chair. Here’s what happened: I sat down, told her what I wanted, and she said, “So you want me to use clippers?” Since that’s what Linda had always done to ensure a close fit in the back and on the sides, I said “Sure, whatever works for you.” Ahem. Please note the full meaning of that phrase. What it really means is, “SURE, WHATEVER WORKS FOR YOU.” As in, do what you need to do in order to give me what I want. As in, don’t fuck up my hair, please.

Unfortunately, The Butcher totally misinterpreted this extremely complicated and nuanced sentence of mine. Obviously I need to work on my communication skills...

[Note: The following takes place in the present tense for maximum impact] About ten minutes in, she still hasn’t switched over to scissors and I’m settling in to the assumption that my hair is being cut by Mr. Clippy’s apprentice. No problem. Whatever works for her. But one thing that kinda bothers me is that she’s been gabbing with her closest coworker pal to our left for quite a while, and the clippers seem to have been rubbing up against the left side of my head for an inordinate amount of time. Meanwhile, the right side of my head is getting lonely. Then she turns around to Mr. Clippy and says, with a perplexed kind of tone, “Hey, John. How do you—” but the rest of her sentence was lost in a haze as my brain screamed Holy shit she doesn’t know what she’s doing, you trusting fool! She is butchering your hair!

And so she did. Mr. Clippy, who was busy creating his own electric-clipper masterpiece, distractedly answered The Butcher’s question, not realizing that what she was really asking him was “How do I fix this guy’s head now that I’ve made it look like a weed whacker was used on it?” Nonetheless, surprisingly unconcerned by the lack of an adequate response, The Butcher merely shrugs and goes back to, well, “finishing up,” for lack of a better phrase. Then she hands me a mirror.

“Is that what you were looking for?” she asked--then had the gall to interject, “I think it looks great! It’s really short!”

It was short all right. And lopsided. And there was not enough hair left on the other side to even it out without making me look like those poor saps at the beginning of Full Metal Jacket. So I couldn’t very well ask her boss to fix it for me. It was obviously a lost cause. Instead, I nodded with a stone face, got out of the chair, paid my $30 (yes, I still gave her a tip), and sprinted all the way to my car.

Once I was home I spent half an hour in front of my bathroom mirror with a pair of scissors, trying to even out the few remaining bits of hair that hung vaguely in the direction of my forehead, while my girlfriend at the time hovered in the background, trying not to laugh. Then I spent the next day at work fielding a constant stream of “Whoa, that is a short haircut!” exclamations from my colleagues. Joy.

The last few times I’ve tried to make an appointment with the elusive Melissa, whose actions I studied from afar throughout my third haircut (courtesy of Mr. Clippy, who I knew would do a less-than-stellar job--but at least it would be reliable). I had determined Melissa was fairly talented with a pair of scissors, but while making an appointment for my fourth haircut I learned that she was out on maternity leave. The last time I’d seen her she didn’t even look pregnant, so that tells you how often I get my hair cut. On the fifth time I successfully made the appointment with her, but whoever wrote it in the book screwed up the times and I ended up getting worked on by Sarah instead.

Sarah actually did an okay job, but she’s no Linda. So I’m hoping to finally give Melissa a shot this time. All I have to do is make the call...

It may be a few days before I can work up the nerve.