Creep of the Day: Hair Schooled

I’m cheap. And, often I pay the price for, well, not paying the price. I started going to the hair school to get my hair done, after recommendations from a few people. I don’t particularly care that much about who cuts my hair, because I figure its hard to mess it up and more often than not I like my cut after I go in. The experience, however, leaves something to be desired. Over the past year I’ve had two gems that make me wonder if I need to invest a little more.

Stylist A: Paula

Paula did not start off well. In fact, she fucking forgot about her appointment and took a break to smoke some pot or get lost in a mirror or who the fuck knows what happens. My appointment, which was scheduled for 5:30 didn’t start until girl lackadaisically rolled up in the lobby around 6:00. But, I didn’t hold it against her – figured it was a mistake–things happen. I told her that I wanted to keep somewhat of a similar length with my hair give or take a few inches, but she could do whatever she wanted as far as the style. I think she almost crapped her pants with excitement. She asked me 3x if I was ‘serious?!’ Again, I chalked it up to – alright I gave Paula freedom, fuck I’d be excited to chop up hair however I wanted to. I stopped giving Paula credit when she started washing my hair. The entire time she’d start a conversation and then she’d space out. Then, after about 10 minutes of washing my hair she asks “Did I just wash your hair 2x or 3?”, decided she couldn’t remember and started washing again. Seriously, Paula, pay attention.

Sylist B: Bobara (Okay, I can’t remember her name, but she gave me a bob – so I figured this was fitting).

Bobara started our three hour journey by asking what I wanted. When I mentioned that I wanted something that made me look a little more than my age, which is 23, she loudly exclaimed,


Note: Bobara couldn’t have been more than 18. I wasn’t offended, because I do look really young, however I internally gave her a Minus One! and deducted a “couth” point.

Bobara and I finally decide she was going to shorten my hair a bit, and then do some layers. And, after my hair was washed she was ready to begin trimming. She points to my shoulder and goes “Just to make sure we’re on the same page, you want your hair about here right?” I said yes, she carefully parceled out a chunk of hair and CHOP. Unfortunately the chop was about 3 inches higher than she pointed. Fail, Bobara, fail. I figured there was no point in correcting her at that point and she continued to go cut.

As she began cutting I realized Bobara was left-handed and held the scissors in this dreadfully awkward position. As a consequence of her awkward grip, about every other snip homegirl would stab me in the neck with the head of the scissors. I couldn’t think of a better way to say, Hey stop fucking stabbing me in the neck, so I kept mum and watched diligently. Bobara’s awkward grip wasn’t only reserved for the scissors, oh no, it transferred to her hair drying as well. As she was trying to dry the left side of my hair she didn’t realize that she could spin the chair and instead kept whacking me in the face with the cord. It was a long arduous, three hours in Bobara’s chair and although I liked the cut–I’m not sure it was worth the neck stabs, hair dryer whacks, and unanticipated length. Situations like these make me wonder if I’m not a source of great entertainment for the common public, or God, perhaps.

*Disclaimer: Please note, this post and the opinions expressed in it do not seek to harm, discredit, or “cause beef” with hair schools, hair dressers, or lefties. Guaranteed my happy ass could not do a decent job cutting and styling hair, especially with scissors that are only for righties when you’re left handed. So cheers to you! I only ask that you practice not stabbing me in the neck and remember how often you’ve washed hair.*



Disclaimer: These posts may make me seem conceited, egotistical or perhaps overly sensitive to the ‘innocent’ doings of random people. But, common sense leads me to believe otherwise as well as series of friends throughout the years who have evidenced my creeper-magnetism first hand.

Naturally it leaves me wondering what is it about me that attracts these strange cats? I’m not exceptionally pretty, overly friendly, or anything that you would think would attract such a response. In Germany, it was particularly bad – the creepiest fuckers would always come up for me and I was  commonly a target for people yelling shit, asking for money, staring like maniacs, and just doing weird shit in general. I can understand a certain level based on being an international student, speaking a different language, and simply my cultural tendencies-but in comparison to other students it was off the charts.

At the bus stop, one of my German professors, this hilarious and extremely sharp woman, witnessed a creeper in action. Afterward my friend and I commented on how often it had been happening. To which she replied the same happens to her – and quite frankly she thinks it’s because we’re short and in someways that makes us less intimidating and easier to approach. I’m not sure, if her theory is right – but it’s certainly an interesting perspective. And, if her theory is right in any regard how the fuck do you reduce your creep magnetism – do you have to wear a fucking snarl on your face 24/7? I have no idea, until I do figure it out though you will have plenty more stories to read. Lucky you.