Bad Hair Day? Try 2 months.

Just when you think the ugly cannot get uglier, they go for a haircut.

Now, already as it is, my looks leaves much to be desired, hence, I need to hold together and desperately hang on to every little thing that could possibly create an illus ional and misleading effect that deludes people into thinking that I look better than I really do. So, forgetting that important point, I marched into the hairdresser’s yesterday, intending to obtain for myself one of those very close cropped crew cuts. You know the kind that closely resembles a very short military buzz cut (without the flat top), that many footballers sport.

I thought that it would make me look younger, smaller, and perhaps, more like a little round monk. But most of all, I just wanted the practicality and neatness.

So I jaunted into the joint, threw myself into the specified chair, barked out my instructions (in a very polite and kind way, of course) and settled back happily, and dived straight into the arresting Bill Bryson book that I’d brought. I was happily immersed in it when I happened to glance up while flipping a page, about 15 minutes later.

I glanced up and saw a stranger looking back at me. Now, for some odd obscure reason, I had no idea what a stranger was doing in my mirror, but I dismissed it and went back to my book.

For 2 seconds.

When I realized that the ugly mug belonged to me. And it definitely was neither a GI Jane or Sinead O Connor.

It was more like… what the fuck!?!

So I very demurely gulped, counted to 10, clenched my fists, and then asked in a very controlled manner, excuse me, is this the haircut I asked for?

Response: Yes. You wanted short n round all over right? And you wanted blah blah..x x.. blah..xx… right?

At this point I was visualizing an eternity and lifetime of squawking around in those brown paper bags with 3 holes cut in for the eyes n mouth, and perhaps, rearranging the neat little face of my hairdresser. What I wanted to tell him was ‘you sorry fishhead, you waste of earthly resources you, I wanted a close cropped crew cut, not a whatever hack job you call this is, you sorry wimp, don’t take your personal life crisis out on ME, you flipazoid!’.

Instead, what my real response was: Ah, but of course.

Don’t think I didn’t catch you, wiseguy. Perhaps my guy was distracted coz he was alternating between me and the leggy girl in very short shorts sitting directly diagonally opposite me, displaying her long legs very distractedly.

Luckily Bill Bryson is talented and funny, and I much preferred to focus on his talents. But I am afraid to say I cant say likewise for my hairdresser.

Nevermind.

I look like a Chinese coolie now. It is not so much a matter of vanity and of looking like a pimp. It is more a matter of not trying my damdest to sabotage myself further and further destroy all chances I have of emerging on the streets without incurring a snigger or 2.

I will b washing my hair everyday and soaking it in beer from now on. [Its been known to stimulate follicle growth.]

Speaking of which, I think my experiment to grow out a baby goatee has come to an unseemly end as well.