So I went to get a haircut today. I despise the necessity of having the keratin violently removed from my scalp. I feel a vague sense of pity for hair, because it does its job very well for weeks and sometimes months, only to get shanked and thrown in a dumpster.
But today, I hated getting a haircut for an entirely different reason.
It hurt. A lot. Like, a WHOLE lot. A subjective "buttload".
As soon as I walked into Fantastic Sam’s I knew it was a bad idea. I was greeted by Debbie, one of the “stylists,” with the words, “Hey, sweetie. I’ll be right back, I gotta’ put twenty down on the phone bill.” I love Mississippi.
Had I been aware of the travesty that was to be committed upon her return, I would have run screaming into the hills.
When she finally got back and I had the giant bib on, she began to, for lack of a better phrase, ravaging my head with her clippers. Apparently they have a new beauty accessory: adamantine clipper guards. I know this, because I have some imbedded in my skull.
For the next 10 minutes I was cranium-raped by this apparatus of doom. Not only was she excessively violent, the clippers seemed to be powered by a pair of titmice hopping on a pair of tiny pistons, because it got caught in my hair 3 times. This was bad enough, but my “stylist” must have read the instruction manual wrong, because I doubt the recommended procedure to remove a jammed clipping apparatus from someone's mane is through a swift, hard yank.
For the next 10 minutes I was cranium-raped by this apparatus of doom. Not only was she excessively violent, the clippers seemed to be powered by a pair of titmice hopping on a pair of tiny pistons, because it got caught in my hair 3 times. This was bad enough, but my “stylist” must have read the instruction manual wrong, because I doubt the recommended procedure to remove a jammed clipping apparatus from someone's mane is through a swift, hard yank.
Approximately seven years later, the cranial molestation ended. While I was greatly relieved it was over, I quickly became apprehensive about the next step, in which this psychopath would be wielding a set of hinged blades in extremely close proximity to my face. I’ll spare you the details and just mention that I was poked in the eye with a comb twice and it still took her four tries to make it look halfway decent.
To add insult to injury this particular "salon" had a tip added to every ticket if you used a debit card "because we can't edit the amount after it's sent." However, because I was finally free of Herr Debbie and her house of horrors (and therefore free from reprisals), I could finally explain that, when I entered the establishment, I did not want to be shivved, have my hair ripped from my skull, or nearly blinded.
She never even apologized. She simply said, "Well, I've already run it."
To which I replied, "Well, un-run it, Deb. Or, if you prefer, I can send you the bills for my tetanus shot, opthalmological exam, and post-rape counselling." Which I thought was pretty funny. Apparently Deb does not share my sense of humor.
She called her manager to void the transaction and proceeded to tell her that I was "being rude". Granted, I wasn't the nicest person in the world, but I had been recently traumatized, so I wasn't exactly chipper.
I told the manager that I would pay the bill (because my hair was indeed shorter than when I had entered the establishment, thus, in a technical sense, I had received a haircut), but I only handed her $13 instead of the requested $14.83 and explained that I wanted to give Debbie a negative tip of $1.83. She said that I did not have to give her a tip, but I was required to pay the bill in full. I dug out another bill and some change, threw it on the counter and left.
But the trick's on them. I only left $1.70! VICTORY IS MINE!!!1111!
To add insult to injury this particular "salon" had a tip added to every ticket if you used a debit card "because we can't edit the amount after it's sent." However, because I was finally free of Herr Debbie and her house of horrors (and therefore free from reprisals), I could finally explain that, when I entered the establishment, I did not want to be shivved, have my hair ripped from my skull, or nearly blinded.
She never even apologized. She simply said, "Well, I've already run it."
To which I replied, "Well, un-run it, Deb. Or, if you prefer, I can send you the bills for my tetanus shot, opthalmological exam, and post-rape counselling." Which I thought was pretty funny. Apparently Deb does not share my sense of humor.
She called her manager to void the transaction and proceeded to tell her that I was "being rude". Granted, I wasn't the nicest person in the world, but I had been recently traumatized, so I wasn't exactly chipper.
I told the manager that I would pay the bill (because my hair was indeed shorter than when I had entered the establishment, thus, in a technical sense, I had received a haircut), but I only handed her $13 instead of the requested $14.83 and explained that I wanted to give Debbie a negative tip of $1.83. She said that I did not have to give her a tip, but I was required to pay the bill in full. I dug out another bill and some change, threw it on the counter and left.
But the trick's on them. I only left $1.70! VICTORY IS MINE!!!1111!
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