If hair could talk, mine would be speaking its last rites.
An inch off is what I said. Two to three-inches off is what I got. A great bang for the buck. I don’t think so. More like getting banged by a buck, in the monetary sense.
The hair-grazing experience began with seven words.
“I part your hair in the center,” she said, in a dialect reminiscent of Cloris Leachman’s Frau Blücher – horses whinny – from “Young Frankenstein.”
Frau Blücher: Would the doctor care for a brandy before retiring?
Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: No. Thank you.
Frau Blücher: Some varm milk… perhaps?
Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: No… thank you very much. No thanks.
Frau Blücher: Ovaltine?
Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: NOTHING! Thank you! I’m a little – tired!
Frau Blücher: Then I vill say… goodnight.
Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: Goodnight.
After the ceremonial parting of the hair, the radical hacking of the hair began – snip – a clump here – snip – a clump there. At the foot of the chair, all the beheaded strands of hair fell into one mountainous clumpage of hair-don’ts, all victims of la filament guillotine.
Poor frizzy dead-enders, lying lifeless and stranded with other frivolous fibers cut off from the pore of their very existence. That’s what happens when you fall to the end of the hairline. Some call it fate. “It was just their time.” Others pretend not to know me. They shake their heads and mutter, “It’s just hair.”
“Just!” I cry out. “They’re dead. I tell you. Dead!”
Monty Python Dead Parrot Sketch:
“He’s not pining, he’s passed on. This parrot is no more. He has ceased to be. He’s expired and gone to meet his maker. He’s a stiff, bereft of life, he rests in peace. If you hadn’t have nailed him to the perch he’d be pushing up the daisies. He’s rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. This is an ex-parrot!”
Follicly speaking, hair is the root of all evil. Case in point, Samson lost his immortal strength after Delilah shaved his head while he slept. Frankly, I’m surprised he could sleep through all the snipping and scraping, as a cold front rolled in, chilling the circumference of his unprotected bald head.
Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street, didn’t even pretend to take a little off. Although he did provide a service of sorts, saving his customers precious time by preventing the need for any future appointments.
I guess psychotic-leaning folks gravitate toward businesses that require the use of sharp objects.
At least, I survived my haircut. Can’t say the same for my hair. Audible sobbing and one loud purging sigh. Time to say a prayer for the dearly departed and wait for my hair to grow back, so I can regain my strength in order to go through the entire ordeal again in several weeks or less.
R.I.P. my fine fringed brittle-ones.
Do you have a hair-razing tale?