Bad Haircut

Today I got a bad haircut. It took about four days of clear skin to become so outrageously confident that I walked into a barber shop on a weekday. This confidence, however, was only meant to last for so long. Whether it was the balancing of my chakras or my ying catching up to my yang, the man with the clippers effectively took my confidence out back like an injured horse, shot it in the head, then sent me on my way; a pinheaded shell of the man I came in as.

It’s as if I brought in a picture of a bowling pin. Or an egg with a feather on top. Every angle I check reveals in itself fresh horrors. And the painful part is it’s not like he didn’t try. It would be one thing if he had come out the backdoor with a beer and a buzzsaw and told me to sit down and brace myself. Instead, the man was calculated. Slowly and methodically he fucked my shit up, meticulously clipping away until I looked like a dumbass. 

When he was done he brought the mirror around to show me how I looked from the back. I’m barely okay with how I look dead on and that took my entire life to accept, so I avoided the sight. It wasn’t until I was in the sanctity of my home that I took the time to really admire the handiwork. Hideous, down to the most minute detail. Expertly misshapen. Thorough in the disfigurement. Precise in it’s fucked-upedness. 

In the hours since it’s happening I’ve been forced to question what’s left of me; starting, even, to consider working on my personality, something I haven’t done since I could grow a beard. Looking like an idiot all through high school gave me character. Ok. I’ll take that. But at this point what are we doing here? What’s the benefit? What can I learn from this besides what Bruce from Bruce Almighty has already told us: that God is nothing more than a mean kid with a magnifying glass who wants to burn off my feelers and watch me squirm.

I’m running out of people to blame. Sure the barber should take responsibility, but what about the canvas itself? Is it not partially at fault? Picasso’s work would suffer too if he was forced to paint on something shaped like a battered rugby ball. Speaking of Picasso, I’ve never connected with his work more. Radical features, eyes bugging out of heads, jaws gaping, I’m catching originals every time I glimpse my reflection. And I’m not waiting for mirrors either. Car doors, storefront windows, glossy slabs of marble, I’m like a vain MacGyver, fashioning every reflective surface I come across as an opportunity to remind myself I got butchered. 

So, all that to say, to all those ugly people out there who have been praying on my downfall, I hope you’re happy. And to the beautiful people (7’s and up), save me a seat at the table because in roughly 2-3 weeks I’ll be back.