As I mentioned in my last blog, odd things tend to happen to me whenever I have to interact with strangers for more than just a few minutes. I've gotten enough practice to handle retail situations, ordering a meal at a restaurant, asking directions to the library, and most of those other things you cover in the first year of a foreign language class. I'd do much better if I could get some total immersion, like learning Welsh by spending eight years in Wales, but I think I sort of missed my window for that somewhere in middle school. It's probably what I should know instead of the Capcom cheat code, or why Faramir deserves to end up with Eowyn, or that Lor lied to Data when he said he was the more advanced design. But, you know, it's cool.
Anyway, about every five or six months it's impossible for me to deny the fact that I need a haircut any longer. If I could see the back of my head, I'd probably just take care of the whole thing myself no matter what it looked like.
As it is, I can really only go a few weeks snipping at strategic hairs here and there before things just get out of control.
That's when I wander into whatever place seems likely to be able to give me a haircut as soon as the notion hits me. I'm not the kind of guy who needs too much attention in the hair department, but even a ten minute cut can lead to disaster for me if I let myself start talking weird. Unfortunately, the last haircut I got went the way they usually go.
First of all, I'm pretty much completely blind when I'm not wearing my glasses. That means I'm basically incapable of noticing that a haircut is going wrong before it's all finished.
Even though I don't really think I'm going to look like a victim of a random shearing incident, I can't stop myself from mentioning the fact that I have no idea what's going on without corrective lenses. Sometimes it gets a laugh. Most times it starts me down the slippery slope to talking about my old man hair.
See, the hair over my ears and at the back of my head grows a lot faster than the hair on top of my head. If it weren't for that, I'd probably only need half as many haircuts. That means that when the hair on top eventually falls out, I figure I'll be left with crazy white hair sticking out all around the edges and back like a mad scientist.
I think that's pretty stinking cool, to be honest. If the person cutting my hair hasn't decided I'm weird over the unnecessary talk about my trust issues when I'm not wearing glasses (thank you, Maryville College junior year roommates), or over the unnecessary excitment over looking like somebody you'd expect to be building a mutant creature in his spare time, then my haircut generally turns out pretty awesome. As you might expect, this happens about one time in like 20 haircuts.
I've done some thinking about how to solve this little problem, but most of my ideas so far seem like they might actually make things worse.
Here's hoping for a stroke of genius, or somebody who has a flo-bee they might be willing to pass along at a discount price.