Bad Haircut and Shaving the Face

My regular hairstylist has gone missing from the last place I found her (after she went missing from the previous place I knew her), and I’ve been loathe to find a replacement. See this post for the important details regarding my plight.

But after going two weeks beyond my usual hair growth limit, my head was taking on the resemblance of a squirrel’s nest. I had to bite the bullet and just pick someone, somewhere to cut my hair. So this past Friday, I called a nearby Mitchell’s hair salon.

I should have known I’d get a less than pleasing result when the woman directed to attend to my messy top was essentially indecipherable. I don’t know how many times I said, “I’m sorry, what?” while sitting in her chair. But at least after a couple of failed attempts at the small talk, when it became clear that the language barrier between us was insurmountable, (there are apparently very few recognizable sounds between Hindi-English and Southern-English), she let me sit quietly and close my eyes to doze a bit.

When she was done, I wasn’t really satisfied with my look, but I couldn’t exactly describe what was wrong. And even if I had the necessary descriptive power, I doubt I could have conveyed the points to the woman. So I settled for saying the universal concept of “OK,” just to get out of the seat and out of the salon.

Later, at home, in the mirror with some time to truly examine my cropped locks, I was able to find the words to describe my new haircut: “crap.” Yep, I had a terrible haircut. Dammit.

Then this past weekend, for some strange reason, I decided to shave off my mustache and goatee. I used to shave and grow this thing every couple of weeks, but for the past two years I’ve maintained it constantly. There are people who know me now who have never seen me without my facial hair.

As soon as I finished wiping the residual shaving cream from my chin, I realized shaving was a mistake. I’ve always thought I have a boring face. Even when I was in my twenties, I experimented with beards, mustaches, and goatees. And now that I’ve grown so accustomed to the mustache and goatee, its absence is stark.

I never deluded myself to thinking that I looked all suave and debonair with my lip and chin hair, but without it I look fully dorkish. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror for several minutes before walking out to the bedroom.

Cowgrit was never a fan of facial hair, and put up with mine only because she loved me. But even she had lately grown accustomed to it. This reversion back to my bare face had a little shock value.

At work, when someone commented, “Hey, you shaved your beard,” I replied, “Yeah, I just did it to draw attention away from my bad haircut.”

Fortunately, my hair (head and face) grows pretty fast. I’ll be searching for a new stylist in three weeks, and my mustache and goatee will be at least recognizable before this week is out. I’ll just have to avoid company photos and family reunions till then.

Bullgrit