I hate getting my hair cut. I always have. I don’t like people touching my head, and sitting still for half an hour while either trying to make small talk with someone or having to listen to other people talk is just torture. I really don’t care what my hair looks like, I just want it to be short enough that it doesn’t tangle too easily, and in a style that doesn’t require me to do anything other than brush it in the morning.
Back when I was in college my friend Stephanie convinced me to go to a more “edgy” salon. (Honestly, I think this may be the only time I ever went to go get my hair cut with someone else.) While I was waiting for my turn we talked about what I wanted. I believe my exact quote was “I don’t really care as long as they don’t shave my head.”
However, when I was sitting in the chair, what came out was something along the lines of “Do whatever you want to do.” Naturally the stylist immediately whipped out the clippers and set to work. I thought Stephanie was going to stop breathing because she was laughing so hard.
The thing is, it looked pretty good. And it was really easy to take care of. It wasn’t long enough to tangle, and there really wasn’t all that much to brush. The only problem is that 1) I didn’t (and still don’t) wear makeup, and 2) I didn’t (and still don’t) wear dresses. Apparently “short hair” plus “no makeup” plus “jeans” equals “male” to a small but significant percentage of the population.
Let me just say, if I were a guy and had a butt this big, I would cry.
In the Santa Ana train station, the bathrooms are down a short hallway – the men’s bathroom is halfway down on the left, and the women’s bathroom is at the end.
I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, plus my leather jacket, Doc Martins, and I was carrying my guitar case. But again, let me stress, if I were a guy and had hips like this, I would never leave my room. Ever.
Anyhow, I walked down the hallway, followed by two guys probably in their fifties, with slight Southern accents. As I passed the men’s bathroom, one of them called out.
“Son… Son! You’re going the wrong way!”
At this point I realized they were talking to me and I paused and considered turning around, but then decided that it just wasn’t worth the effort and the all-around embarrassment. I kept going into the women’s bathroom.
As the door closed behind me, I heard him drawl to his friend, “Well… I guess he didn’t care.”
When I was younger and had long hair and it was the 90's and we all wore combat boots and flannels, I was mistaken once or twice for a gal.
Even my roommate Curtis, who was almost 6', fairly brawny, had shoulder-length scraggly hair, and could more easily be mistaken for a Neanderthal man than a modern woman, was once called "miss" from behind. Scared the crap out of those people when he turned around.
you left out that part where grandma asked "who is that boy?"
kpoo, don't you think that story, with the hope chest and all, is meat enough for another posting sausage?
K-poo and Jeff, don't be digging up all my childhood trauma at one time. Really. Let me space it out a bit so I don't become catatonic.
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