I hate Super Cuts.
I hate the place with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
Yet, I have some sort of ridiculous compulsion to go back there for each and every haircut, thus proving that I’m batshit crazy.
It seems that every time I go in there I end up leaving worse off than I was when I went in. That’s saying something given how long I usually wait before getting my hair cut.
I’ve got a wedding coming up in a month and I may (or may not) have an interview coming up and I figured it was high-time I trim up my long, flowing locks for something a little more socially acceptable.
As is all-too-often the case, I got a bowllet.
What’s a “bowllet” you ask? Well it’s a combination bowl-cut and mullet.
Despite my request to make the back shorter and leave the sides and front still kinda shaggy, the lady just said, “uh…sure” and did her own thing. She took way, way, way, way, way, way, way too long trimming every tiny piece of hair and I worried about halfway through that I might be her first official client.
Granted, I’m pretty sure that the rigorous training process goes something like this:
Trainer: “Can you hold scissors without stabbing someone in the eye. Not, like, all the time…you’re not a doctor or anything, but most of the time?”
Prospective Hair Butcher: “Um…yeah, I think so?!”
Trainer: “I heard yes! You’re in! Here’s your tools…go butcher the hair of that Iowan-looking kid who just walked in. I’m going to go smoke crystal meth and pretend I’m happy with the decisions I’ve made in my life.”
…so the difference between her first official client and her 10,000th client probably won’t be all that noticeable.
I asked for some adjustments throughout the process and, as they always do, she managed to make my hair look presentable in the chair with it all flipped around and combed over and whatnot.
I was moderately impressed, handed her my credit card and left the establishment.
It wasn’t until I was walking down the street and noticing wayward glances from strangers that I figured I should take a look at my reflection somewhere other than the Super Cuts mirror.
Right then and there I caught a glimpse of my bowllet in the Walgreen’s window and I nearly broke down.
Basically, I look like this…
Obviously, this is peachy keen when I’m wearing my hat—which is, admittedly, like 94% of the time that I’m awake—but is not cool for weddings and potential interviews.
My general reaction to a Super Cuts hair cut is to go home, pull out my buzzer, find the longest setting, and just shave my head.
Generally, I wait until Grace has had a chance to see it first and talk me down from such a rash move, but honestly, I have a hard time imagining she’ll have a secondary recommendation after this haircut.
It’s bad, y’all. I’ve got bangs. The bangs of an 8-year-old.
Even the cat refuses to look me in the eyes right now.
I f’n hate Super Cuts.