I’ve had some bad hair days in my past, but if you combine them all together, they will still pale in comparison to what happened to Yours Truly last weekend. After looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror this morning, I fear it was so monumentally bad that the next six months are ruined. A little too much drama for a simple mistake with the shears? Besides just how bad could it possibly be?
Bad, Dear Reader, really bad.
Before we cut into this story any further, let’s take a look at some other bad hair days from the past. And for the very first, we must travel back to that old familiar street not so far away called Flamingo.
In the mid 1960’s, Beatlemania was in its heyday, and my three brothers and I needed haircuts. I knew we needed one because a week before school started Dad called us all to the kitchen and proclaimed, “You boys need a haircut.”
With clippers in one hand, a white twin bed sheet in the other, and Mom’s large salad bowl sitting next to him on the table, he pointed to a single chair in the middle of the kitchen. With a wry smile he asked, “Now who’s gonna be my first victim?”
Dad was joking, or at least I thought he was, so I sat in the chair first. Besides, I was about to enter the third grade so the last thing I wanted was for the kids to make fun of the way I looked. As he placed the salad bowl on my head and started cutting, all I could think was, Wow! A Beatles haircut! I’m gonna be the coolest kid in third grade! Nobody’s gonna make fun of me.
No, I wasn’t. And yes, they did.
My next terrible haircut came in my mid-thirties when I began losing my hair. As I sat in the barber’s chair, he asked, “How much do you want cut off?” My answer surprised him.
“All of it. Just shave it all off.”
Unfortunately, I decided to go totally bald in the middle of summer. And while shaving my head might not have been a bad idea, not wearing sunscreen and a hat while working outside all the next day certainly was. I’ve had many sunburns in my lifetime, but none hurt as much as a whole head burn. For the next three weeks my round head peeled just like an onion.
Now for the latest bad haircut. Over the last six months, I’ve visited the barber shop for a trim every five weeks. And each time I’ve sat down in the chair, I’ve said the same thing, “I’m not here for a haircut. Just trying to grow my hair longer. It may be the last time I can. Please just give me a trim.” Last weekend I said the same thing to a stylist I’d never used before. Unfortunately, their definition of a “trim” was vastly different from mine.
Before I knew what was happening, the six months of carefully trimmed hair growth was lying in my lap. To say my hair is now short would be an understatement. The crew cut Dad gave us kids back on Flamingo just before Twin Brother Mark and I started the seventh grade was longer.
So, if you happen to see Yours Truly walking down the street, you may not recognize me at first. I’ll be the one hiding under a large sun hat for the next six months or so until my hair grows out. At least that way my head won’t get sunburned again and peel like an onion.
