Tag Archives: haircut

Folly

I sat and I studied. I acted as though I was reading the paper, though anyone with any knowledge of me whatsoever would know I would never actually read the Daily Mail. Fortunately I was an unknown in that room. A recognised face maybe; not a person they would consider someone they knew anything about.

So I listened. My eyes scanned the same paragraph over and over. If they had been paying attention they would either have seen through my ruse very quickly, or merely assumed I am a simpleton, reading very slowly indeed. But they were engrossed. They were in conversation.

So I listened. I studied. I made mental notes.

“… but the wife doesn’t really want to so I have no idea what we can do.”

“Yeah, well, that’s how it is isn’t it? Still, could be worse – do you have any holidays coming up?”

“Some, yeah, yeah. Only a couple of days here and there, though. Nothing big.”

“That’s a shame – the weather’s so nice right now.”

“It is, yeah…”

He stopped short. Had I been found out? Were they about to turn on me like a pack of rabid dogs picking up the scent of a timid shrew? My grip on the paper tightened. I felt a sweat begin to develop on my brow. Read it, my brain told me, read the fucking news so you don’t get found out!

But it was too late. Their conversation had ended, the man once sat now stood. He glanced at me. Everything slowed. An instant became a decade. What was barely a glance became a ten-year, thousand-yard stare. I prepared for the worst.

Almost as suddenly, he looked away. Was the conversation about to begin again? Could I risk more study having just that second almost been found out?

“Eight pounds please.”

“Here you go.”

“Cheers mate, see you later.”

And just like that it was my time. My turn to put everything I had ever learned – all that I had studied – into practice. I rose, forcing the best genuine smile I could to appear on my face and I sat. He approached. Covered me. Stared over my shoulder, into the mirror, expertly reflecting his gaze right into mine. I hesitated.

“… Umm… Short back and sides, please. With about an inch left on top… ?”

He sensed my uncertainty and pounced. The training would have to kick in now or it would never come to me. “I can shave it all over with a number eight if you want it exactly an inch?”

The sweat ran faster. My hands, concealed undercover, began to clench involuntarily.

“No, I… that’s fine… if it’s not exact, it’s okay.”

The gamble paid off. He bought it. The training had worked. I had succeeded. I began to relax, safe in the knowledge I was going to get through this unscathed. But he was a wily old veteran and he simply waited one tick, two ticks, three ticks longer before hitting with his hardest volley of fire.

“Weather’s nice right now.”

But I was ready – I had prepared in my earlier faux-reading session. I could parry this. I could win. I could win! I copied the other one word for word.

“It is, yeah…”

But… nothing.

He hadn’t bought it. He didn’t bite. My inexperience – my lack of training – had let me down. He continued in silence, his face sullen, his mind surely thinking of the horror he had just witnessed in the chair in front of him.

I had failed.

And that’s why I always fail at talking to barbers.

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Hair today, hair tomor.. wait, I think I used that before

I’m at a point with my hair now that I haven’t been at for a fair few years now. It curls up at the bottom on the back, which is weird and annoying because sometimes it brushes against my neck and tickles me and… wait… no… I mean… umm… I was powerlifting houses while fighting Nazi bears the other day. Yes. Manly.

Anyway, as those who see me on a regular basis in real life might have heard me saying – repeatedly – my hair is too long. It’s not tenable. The sudden heat has made me realise this bouffant mop needs to be hacked down, lest it continue its growth, spiral out of control and take out Western civilisation as we know it.

But what to do? Yes folks, it’s that blog I’ve done two, maybe three whole times before: the Ian haircut blog.

Choice one would be the simplest and best for a quick fix, especially as I could probably do it to myself at home: the all-off. This would make me look like this:

Except not really. But I can have that thought in my head and that makes me happy. PROS: Cheap, easy. CONS: People think you’re about to immediately fight them.

Choice two would be a visit to some kind of ‘hair stylist’ or whatever they’re called, so they could take the blank canvas that is my thick, beautiful mane and sculpt it into something the beautiful people would deign acceptable to their ranks. PROS: I would be sexy and immediately find a rich wife. CONS: I don’t have a rich wife right now and my normal haircut price of £8 seems a bit steep, so paying more than that makes me want to laugh. Then vomit.

Choice three would be a traditional visit to a traditional barber for a traditional short back and sides with a traditional bit of forced yarning with the traditional haircuttist before paying a traditional low amount of money for your now traditional hair-look. PROS: traditional, affordable, no fear of everything going wrong. CONS: boring, too much pressure to yarn with traditional barber, feel a bit twatty going in there with hair this long in the first place as will have to put up with barbed comments (from barber) about having ‘girly’ hair.

Choice four would be to leave it alone and let it grow even longer, to the point I have silly long hair and look like 2005 all over again. We call it the 2005 Standard. PROS: I have better hair than most girls. CONS: I look like an absolute twat and I want my hair lopped off.

Choice five would be to kill myself. PROS: eliminates all problems with hair growth/cutting. CONS: Mum might be a bit sad for a week or two.

Rogue choice six is to get someone to cut it for me, which I used to do quite a lot back in the day. This resulted in a free haircut with, let us say ‘mixed’ results. I would err on the side of ‘mainly amateurish’ rather than going for a full-on ‘wanky shitballs’, but that’s because I’m kind. Needless to say, it never looked amazing afterwards. PROS: free, makes Mike’s dad think we’re gay. CONS: usually ends up looking… off, not everyone is willing to drop everything to come around and cut my hair for me you selfish bastards.

The choice will be a difficult one.

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Haircutageddon Part CMXCMXMMCIXIVIIVIVVIIXIV

It is approaching that fateful time when, yes, I need a haircut. Much as this may shock you to learn, I am not a fan of the haircutting process. It probably shocks you to learn I’ve written about this exact thing before, as I am an unimaginative schmuck with very little going on in his life, hence needing to regurgitate topics.

But I’m going to open this one up to the public vote, rather than just bitch, moan or whatever else it is I normally do. I want you all to decide what haircut I will get. Here, in pictoral form, are the options:

Shaved head

Otherwise known as ‘the Rollins’, it tends to make me look like this all the time. People have been known to cross the road to avoid me when I have this hair. I am not kidding.

Whatever the hell this is

And definitely not just because CM Punk has it and even though I’m 28 years old I’m trying to look like a wrestler.

Short back and sides

Because I’m boring like that.

GROW IT

I am often tempted to bring back the feathered and lethal flowing locks. After all, they were… umm… yeah. There.

THESE ARE THE ONLY OPTIONS.

I find it amusing how barely-hidden my gayness is in this post.

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Fear and haircuts in… well, not Las Vegas

I had a mophead, now I have lopped said mop. Or at least, had said mop lopped by a mop-lopping professional. I no longer opt for the mop lop to be carried out outside of a barber shop, in case the quality drop of the mop I’m left with makes me have a strop. You dig?

Strangely though, I have never enjoyed having to go for a haircut until very recently. As in, I haven’t liked doing it – and have actually been reasonably fearful of it – until the time before today, when I first went to the place on Wimborne Road of which I’ve forgotten the name. This is a man that understands when I say “short back and sides” he will just ask what grade I want, then ask “and shorter on top?” to which I will respond “yes”. It will then take 7-10 minutes – or less – to finish cutting my hair, I will pay my £8 and that will be it. That will be it.

My experience of haircuts goes like so: as a child we went to the barber my Dad took us to – Graham’s in Mexborough – and we would get ‘short back and sides’ as my dad instructed. This would be carried out the same every time. Then it got to the point where I had to take myself for haircuts, which I could never be bothered doing, so my hair got quite long – but when I did go, I’d go to Graham’s and he’d know what to do with it. Simple. I then started opting for friends cutting my hair, which lead to some hilarity and some times where Mike’s Dad thought we were gay because he was cutting my hair. Obviously only the gays cut hair.

Then came the dark times at uni, when I had no access to hair clippers and was lured in by £5 haircuts at a local trendy barbers (they showed The Simpsons all the time). I would ask for short back and sides, or I would show a picture of myself on my student ID where I looked half decent and would say “like that”. Every time I ended up looking like Lloyd Christmas. Every time.

Anyway, this is going on too long so I’ll cut it short now (HAHAHAHA): continued having my hair cut by friends/shaving it all off. Manchester had hairdressmen who got angry with me – actually angry – when I just said “short back and sides”. Bournemouth initially spooked me as barbers bring out cut-throat razors for the back of your head. I thought the Turkish barber wanted me dead, as I may have mentioned before. Now I am comfortable with the fat old man. Cutting my hair, that is.

All in all though, I’m glad I now don’t mind having to drop into the chop shop to have the top of my mop lopped. It means I look less like a mushroom head. I still don’t like hair though.

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Hair today, hair tomorrow

I don’t like having hair. It’s stupid. It grows and it gets messy and you have to make it look less messy and you have to wash it and the cycle of suffering never ends. It’s stupid. It’s pointless – I mean, why do we even have it? We’ve invented hats, for fuck’s sake, it’s not like we need nature’s take on the whole thing anymore. It’s like the appendix – it has lost any function it once had and is no longer necessary in humans. As Joseph McCabe argued:

“The vermiform appendage—in which some recent medical writers have vainly endeavoured to find a utility—is the shrunken remainder of a large and normal intestine of a remote ancestor. This interpretation would stand even if it were found to have a certain use in the human body. Vestigial organs are sometimes pressed into a secondary use when their original function has been lost.”

I would like to modify this statement for my own, anti-hair manifesto:

“The mostly protein-based filament known as “hair” —in which some recent medical writers have vainly endeavoured to find a utility—is the shrunken remainder of that which once covered the entire body of a remote ancestor. This interpretation would stand even if it were found to have a certain use in the human body. Hair has since been pressed into a secondary use after its original function was lost. Namely: to make people spend ages looking in the mirror and generally look like a complete and total twatend.”

We can sweat, we have man-made methods in which to keep cool and disperse body heat. There is no need to continue this charade that we ‘need’ or even ‘like’ having hair. Who can honestly say it’s fun to put a crapload of gunk on the top of your head in the vain hope it might make people think you look better than on any other day? And surely no one can say it’s “a right laugh” when this outdated, evolutionary throwback decides it isn’t going to obey basic Newtonian rules and instead behave in a manner which completely disobeys the laws of physics, no matter how much force you exert trying to make it stick in the way you want it to. If ever there were an argument against intelligent design it’s this: hair is shit and pointless, and no god would want us to spend half an hour each morning fannying around with it when he could have made us sleek, hairless (figurative) cougars who spend all day fighting crime or something. Take that, religious zealots!

Still, at least I’m not bald. That would be simply awful.

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