Professionalism and mixed metaphors

I received a haircut yesterday. If by haircut one means “butchery by an unprofessional hack.”

Maybe a little background is justified. I tend to get haircuts at the chain places. My hair doesn’t “style,” tends to stick up in the back, and can occasionally be encouraged to stay out of my face. It’s usually cut every 2 months. I have a simple formula to minimize mishaps: #4 clippers on the sides and back, blend it in, not too short on top (I have a cowlick). It has led to a long series of unremarkable haircuts.

Yesterday the wheels came off the haircut wagon.

Wagon ride begins: “stylist” ignores me for a personal phone call. When I give instructions - #4 clippers on the sides and back, blend it in, not too short on top – she nods. She asks questions as though making conversation and proceeds to ignore responses while chatting with another stylist. We have a brief connection – that Interpreter flick with Nicole Kidman was good. She asks a few questions about my personal life, I respond.

The wheels come off.

Apparently my life does not measure up to “stylist’s” expectations. Because three things occur simultaneously:
1) Conversation ceases
2) Clipping proceeds at a faster pace
3) Flashback to beginning of haircut begins - #4 clippers on the sides and back, blend it in, not too short on top

She cuts it short – it’s Cowlick City. And instead of admitting her mistake, she populates the entire Cowlick metropolitan area. She cuts it shorter.

I’ll admit that I’m the quiet, non-confrontational type. It probably wouldn’t have hurt to intercede before Cowlick suburban sprawl destroyed all hope of decent personal appearance for the foreseeable future. Instead, I decide to respond in capitalist fashion – no tip. I pay by credit card. I sign the receipt. The tip line remains blank.

“Stylist,” like all hacks, blames the victim. “You have to fill this in,” she says, writing a big zero on the tip line with a disgusted look.

Never trust a wagon in suburbia.