I got the hell cut out of my hair. I have been going to the same run-of-the mill place for haircuts for a few years now and wanted to step it up a notch and go somewhere nicer this time around. I just wanted to get a good cut for once.
I did a little Internet research and scoped out websites of some salons in the area. I found one I liked that said on their website: we cut your hair to fit your face, if you want a blunt cut do not come here. It was twice as much as I usually pay, but I liked their confidence and fuck you attitude so I made an appointment atÖletís call it Jonathan Antinís salon. I was supposed to meet with someone named Felix, but when I got there I discovered that Jonathan himself was going to cut my hair. Sweet Jesus, I said to myself, I am going to get the best haircut ever.
He was on the sexy side with a gravel-laced, low speaking voice; he wore package-hugging jeans and Italian shoes. I wasted no time in stroking him by quoting his website. He told me that he uses the French method of blah blah blah and yadda yadda. I tongued his ass with more compliments and accidentally fluffed him up too much. There is a fine line between flattering someone to make them feel good about their French technique so they will do a good job and stroking someoneís ego so hard they shoot their wad and overcompensate. We talked about only cutting about Ĺ to 1 inch and how short layers do not work on my cockadoodle half curly, half straight, half frizzball hair type. He practically spit and said he would NEVER do short layers. Someone must have called in sick, because he spent only about 7 minutes on my hair so he could get to the next person and he totally freaking chopped me and took off about 4 inches in exactly the wrong areas. Now I have a big giant puff ball growing awkwardly off the left side of my head.
Back to the cheapy, crappy, unsexy haircutting place for me.
Of course I tipped, I canít help it.