3 December 2012

The kind of moron I am

There was once a hair cutting place just down the hall from my place of business, where I used to go and get my hair cut, but the mall forced them out, as part of a plan of removing small, independent businesses and replacing them with larger chains.  That was around July, right around the time I usually get a hair cut.  Between that time and now, I have been unable to find a place that is open at a time that is convenient for me.  I was getting shaggy.

I mentioned my problem to a co-worker, who offered a solution:  "Why don't you cut it yourself?" he said.

"Myself? How" I asked.

"I got trimmers.  I'll loan them to you."  I should hasten to add that my co worker is completely bald.

With no other option, and with money hitting new lows with every passing day, I decided to go with that option. He brought me his trimmer along with several attachments that regulate the length of the hair.  He gave me a basic set of instructions, and wished me well.

I waited until Saturday night, then I took the trimmer into the bathroom, and locked the door.  No need for disturbances.  I took out one attachment that was adjustable, and set it for the longest setting- 17.  I took a deep breath, hit the power, and began cutting my own hair.

The cutting started out well, then I heard a sudden click click click from the attachment.  It had slid down to fifteen.  So I redid the parts I had already done, and then started doing some more, except by that time I was down to fifteen.

I was cutting my hair at eleven when there was a knock on the bathroom door. "Bear, what's that buzzing sound?" said Puff.

"I'm cutting my hair," I said.

"What hair?"  she said, her voice rising in pitch. 

"What hair do you think?  I'm not cutting my chest hair."

"You're cutting your hair?" she shrieked.   "No!"  The door began rattling.  "Younger! Get me a coat hanger to open this lock!"

Puff stormed in.  "Gah!" she said.  "What kind of moron are you to cut your own hair?"

"I dunno," I said, resetting the attachment for eight.  "The kind that cuts his own hair?" I started to even out my hair.  Again.

"Stop that!" she said.  "Don't touch it!"

"You want me to leave it like this?" I asked.

She glared at me.  After a while, she left.  I continued trimming my hair at the five setting. 

All in all, it's not the worst haircut I've ever had.  That would be one given to me by my brother when we were kids. As a bonus, the coworker who loaned me the trimmer told me I could keep it.  He doesn't need it any more.  I'm sure Puff will be pleased.

3 comments:

Patience said...

Invest in a more reliable trimmer. I got one about 15 years ago and it's going strong. Used it on my boys and dh hasn't paid for a haircut in 10 years at least. My trimmer has a set of plastic clip on guards; no reason for the length to change that way. I also use scissors. Does your wife have any desire to play barber? (your youngest is a boy so just thinkng ahead)

Puff said...

Ah yes, I would love to teach my self to be be a barber. I'll buy a straight razor and practice giving Bear a really close shave. You know for the whole "shave and a haircut, two bits" schtick.

Bear, it's time to lose the movember stache Let me do it, dear.

But dear really why not just buy a flowbie

Bear-i-tone said...

It is a testament to just how crappy my moustache is that I got rid of it two weeks ago for the funeral, and you never noticed.