© 2012 Timmy Tamisiea. All rights reserved. Oh, there you are, Michael.  I thought you cut hair on Wednesdays.

261/365 – The Perfect Haircut

Call me a diva or a priss or a metrosexual, but the only thing I tend to spend a lot of money on (other than comics and video games) are haircuts.  In Chicago, my haircuts cost an average of 55 bucks.

That’s like one copy of Skyrim! a 35 minute haircut Vs. 255 hours of gameplay (and counting).

Yes!  Fifty five American dollars.  So what?  Stop staring at me luke that!  It’s rude an annoying and it reminds me that I just got a bad haircut . . . Listen.  To me, the saying, “you get what you pay for” could not be more relevant than with haircuts.  I’ve been to Great Clips and Supercuts and Bob’s Discount Trailer Sheers . . . and guess what?  They suck.  Sorry for all you dudes who absolutely pine over these discount cutting factories, but once you’ve gotten a haircut by a stylist and not a wheat chaffer, you’ll know what I mean.

Hello. Welcome to Grimm — I mean GREAT Clips. How much of you head — I mean HAIR would you like chopped off?

My stylist – yes, I use the term stylist because that what she is — my stylist in Chicago is brilliant.  Her name is Alyssa and she works at Halo for Men on Diversey just west of Clark . . . visit her.  She’s awesome.  Plus, you get a parafin hand massage and a beverage.  They used to give you beer, but that was illegal.  That and a bobbing, drunk head is conducive to good haircuts.

This guy was so drunk when he got his haircut.

Every time I went to her I looked stunning afterwards.  Yeah, butt-heads, I used the word stunning — if it makes you homophobes fell more manly, I looked handsome . . . or good, even.  Geesh!

Besides, I only got a hair cut about 4-6 times a year, so 55 isn’t that bad.  The fact is, spending good money for a good haircut is worth it.  Otherwsie, I end up with the dead looking dog I currently have on my head.  I can’t go to Alyssa anymore, so I ventured to a small chain here in LA called Rudy’s.  I went there once when I was interning in 2009 and was really pleased.  My stylist’s name was Michael and . . . ho hum.  He was gay and just loooooooved talking.  Now, I’m a-okay with someone chatting it up while cutting my hair . . . but CUT MY HAIR WHILE YOU DO IT!

Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t know I was at a TED Talk. Carry, on, Michael. Carry on.

Alyssa and I had a great repore.  We KNEW each other by the time I moved, so chatting was cool.  She actually was ambidextrous enough to cut AND talk.  Michael had to freaking stop every time he had to tell me some long winded story.  He would prance around and act out little tales for me.  I wasn’t amused.  It took my an hour to get a seat and then I had to endure the ramblings of a stranger who thinks I care.

Now, whether it’s a product of his talking or his skill level, I’m left with a pretty shitty hair cut.  the sides are too short, teh bangs are tool long — the damn thing ages me by 5 years and I have to keep checking on it throughout the day because it has a mind of it’s own.  It will nestle back into this flat ugky shape if I don’t look at a mirror every other hour or so.  I HATE IT.

I miss Alyssa.  My next task is to call her in Chicago and get an LA recommendation because I’m not paying 35 bucks for a annoying one man show and a crappy haircut.  That’s performance art I can do without.

Oh, there you are, Michael. I thought you cut hair on Wednesdays.

Post a Comment

Your email is never published nor shared.

You may use these HTML tags and attributes <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>