Cutting Crew - An Emasculating Experience

I've come to a point where I've written in so many mediums, I forget what I have discussed. I have probably discussed my lifelong disdain for haircuts. You see, I am hairy everywhere, it's the gorilla in me. I went for a haircut shortly after work. It's 10 minutes of my life I'll never get back, but I'll relive this event every 8-12 weeks for the rest of my life. I can empathize with the inventor of the Floabie - there have been times I've wanted to vacuum my hair. Why stop there? Add a shampoo component and it would be the total package.

You see I go to Supercuts. Don't let the marketing fool you, it's the Russian Roulette of hairdressing. It would be too easy to make a Plaxico Burress joke, but I don't roll like that. Instead I'll spread some knowledge about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. To prevent the jelly from bleeding through the bread on a packed lunch, lightly toast the bread before you spread it. Who said I don't have tips? Speaking of tips, I'm obligated to tip my hairstylist. I'm not a regular and it seems like there's a revolving door of women that come and go at Supercuts. Could they be hairistas? It's not like the barbershop where change isn't a paradigm shift, it's how much the price of a haircut has changed in 30 years.

I never know how I want my hair cut, I just know that I need it cut. I'd almost welcome it if you knocked me out with a local anasthetic and went to town. I'd probably have to sign a waiver if I didn't like it, but I'm hedging my bets at Supercuts. It's not like I'm building a relationship with my hairista. How do I look? How about that mirror? It's like an Orwell Funhouse self-portrait. It's the longest continuous period of time where I look at myself in the mirror. Anything longer than that and I'd have join Narcissist's Anonymous. Maybe it would be worth it for the punch and cookies.