The Horrifying Barber Shop

Evidently, I'm no beauty blogger. I've more in common with my neighbour Christy who rummages through public bins in search of dinner than I do with those beauty gurus on YouTube showcasing their winter favourites and updated skincare routines. In spite of this, I do get my hair cut every once in a while and although I'll confidently never know which shampoo gives itchy scalp or what conditioner to avoid if greasy hair is a difficulty, I do know what defines a bad hairdresser. This is the horror story detailing the harrowing narrative of my last haircut.

Me: 'Hi good fellow, fabulous evening I do believe. I wish to get my mane trimmed'. Me attempting to be sociable.
Barber: 'Huh?'. Pronounced in a sharp tone. The slightly bewildered chap peeked out the window to the image of a mini hurricane and didn't appreciate my strange sense of humour.
Me: 'Do I have to make an appointment or does now suit?'. I was being polite, the place was clearly dead and from the look of things he had nothing better for doing.
Barber: 'Sit'. What can I say? He had a very limited vocabulary. 

At this stage I was confident everything would go well from here. He wasn't exactly the chatty type so I wouldn't have to endure that awkward small talk most hair stylists tend to partake in. I was a fool for being so presumptive on how smooth things would pan out and ended up paying the price.

He started by wrapping me in one of those hairdressing gowns (the garments that resemble a cape being wore the opposite way around), in the process almost choking me. He definitely stole it off a Malibu Barbie styling mannequin head as the collar was way too narrow to be applied to a living human being. The trimmers were then brought onto the scene with what I can only assume was his non-writing hand, he then preceded to attack my head with it.
I couldn't do or say anything at this stage as the robe had me forcefully secured and what little air I was left with was fundamentally for breathing and not complaining. The first lock of hair he chopped descended onto my nose and for the entirety of the ordeal I was in real life purgatory i.e. loitering between sneezing or not. 

After my haircut my face displayed a feature similar to the doll's. 

He had just blistered about ninety percent of my head when suddenly he remembered the scissors had a part to play in this assault. I then initiated prayers to all four major world religions as I was destined to lose an ear, eye or limb. Throughout this nightmare of this haircut the spray he was applying to wet my hair had to be boiling water, my skin felt scalded and this comes from someone who craves heat. The comb he was using was clearly not cleaned from the previous person, but I needn't worry about catching head lice as by the end of this tribulation I'd have no hair left. 
He was almost done defiling me when he took out a naked blade (usually it's used to trim stubble) and I genuinely lost about half a stone from all the sweat generated, terrified Eileen Dunne would be announcing 'death by haircut' on the nine o'clock RTE news later that evening.
However thanks to higher sources I somehow survived the incident without losing too much blood. Before leaving I was presented with one of those stamped cards meaning I'm only four near death experiences away from receiving another near death experience, lucky me. I gracefully declined the special offer as call me old fashioned but a World War II gas chambers themed haircut just isn't my thing.
The traumatic encounter was almost over with, I was about to pay.  Now although I acted like true gent and fought back tears throughout the pursuit I did fall to the ground bawling when he didn't offer me a complementary lollipop as per norm at the end. Had he no mercy?
I went home looking dangerously like Sinead O'Connor and the next day I noticed he had some bizarre African tribal chant craved in Swahili into the back of my skull. Suppose that's life. You win some, you lose some more.

The sheep were left with more dignity than I was.


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