Hair Angst (Another Unfathomably Shallow Post)

From whence did I acquire this curse? Why is it that I walk into a salon and tell the stylist “it used to be spiky; I really didn’t like it that way,” and walk out with spiky hair? I know I talk softly in some social situations, but I think I’m intelligible when I state my preference for anything but spikes. And certainly my stylist at Tenpachi (rated Baltimore’s best salon by the Baltimore City Paper in 2003, a designation I fear is all too accurate) spoke fluent English. As the barber cape went on and the scissors came out I could see no barrier, other than lack of specificity on my part, preventing me from getting not the spiky haircut again, particularly not the militarily-short-on-the-sides version of the spiky haircut I’m now cursed with for the next few weeks.

It’s not terminal, of course. I’ve looked worse. It’s nice to have short hair in the newly-warm weather. And I can’t wear hats to save my life, so it’s not like I’m going to cover it up while it grows out. Moreover, Tenpachi’s gimmick is that they aim to offer salon-caliber cuts at a mere $10.00; they didn’t exactly deliver on that, but nor did I spend a lot for this coiffure failure.

I need to find a hair place that delivers consistently. I’m guessing that place will not be in Baltimore. And wherever I find this place, I need some way to convey with absolute crystalline certainty just how much I don’t want to walk out of there with spiky hair. Messy, sure. Spiky, no. Perhaps if I employ a Stewie from Family Guy policy: “for every spike I find, I shall kill you.”