« Oakland A's Game | Main | My Life, EatFoo »

August 12, 2006

The Anxiety Of A Non-Professional Haircut

Getting one's hair cut is almost always an anxiety-ridden process, full of doubt, questioning, and moments of panic. But I am completely out of money and yet was desperately in need of a less voluminous coiffure. I had no choice--I had to just let the roommate have a go at it. And I found that all the fears of the barber's chair are oddly lessened when one has accepted such a suicide mission.

It's like when I went skydiving several years ago. To make oneself jump out of a plane with nothing but a little piece of silk on one's back doesn't require courage at all. What it requires is submission, saying, "Fuck it. If I die, I die," and just jumping.

So once one has reached the point where one is willing to let one's roommate grab the nearest scissors and start chopping, one pretty much has to have said, "Fuck it. Hair is just hair," and be totally resigned to the likelihood that one will end up accidentally looking like a hipster. At that point, any uncertainty or "Oops"es on the part of one's roommate just kind of roll off. One prepares for the worst and calculates the number of weeks until firm interviews, and then just looks forward, tells him to leave the sideburns, and chills.

Even if one isn't all that vain or particular about one's hair, even if one doesn't use product, spend time styling, or take great pride in one's do, the specter of a disastrous sneeze or an errant scissor-stroke is still enough normally to have one wincing every minute or so during a haircut. Not me. Not this time. If it gets messed up, then I've prepared for the result, and if it doesn't then I'll be pleasantly surprised.

And to make matters worse, there are always interim moments in a haircut in which one stares forward into the mirror, positive that one's barber has cut the hair too short, only to realize after the passage of several minutes that it was actually the perfect length. Haircuts are kind of like certain foods: it's best not to witness the process. Better just to see the final outcome. But when one's roommate is manning the shears, every snip is a step closer to a disaster that is inevitable, so why should one worry about it? "Fuck it, I don't have to see anyone I know for two weeks anyway."

It turns out that Scott did a fine job on the sides and back, and then I decided to do the top myself. I think it came out well. I'd have tipped for it in a salon. Anyway, I don't fuss over my hair, and I leave it all messy anyway, so the unevenness that must be there doesn't show. I'm almost disappointed. I could've been so scene if I'd only gotten a terrible haircut. And then lost thirty pounds. "Fuck it. If I'm a hipster, then I'm a hipster."