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Candy stripes never looked so sweet.
This article is more than a sign of appreciation for barbers. This is the terms and conditions of my barber-customer relationship. I trust you wholeheartedly with my hair.
My entire style. Even if I don’t like the way the cut turns out, I can’t actually describe how it can be better. If you trim my hair with a number four, you could take number one and trim a stripe down the back of my head. Tell me the latest and greatest trend, and as long as I don’t need to use a product, I’ll roll with it.
Doctors honestly give me more hesitation. I have no doubt they have my best interest in mind, and I will follow their instruction (unless of course, I know better). This does not change the fact that they poke, prod, prick, observe, inspect, test blood, urine, feces, spit, sweat, assault with tiny hammers and shine a light in every orifice. Every orifice. I get why they do it, but their means and methods make me naturally uneasy.
Not to mention when another man gropes my grapes, that means something to me. Call me old-fashioned.
With a barber, it’s the opposite experience. I’m already uncomfortable and clueless. I need you to make that go away. Please just take the reins. Sculpt me. Put all your sharp objects next to my head. Tie your cape and thin strap thing around my neck, I won’t even notice. Maybe my beard bothers you? You can have at it. Leave mutton chops or a soul patch if that’s your deal. I’ll even take off my shirt if you want to do some chest work.
The only thing that feels wholly unproductive is me making sweeping hand motions around my head mumbling, “I’d like the sides cut, but, like, the top I want cut but not like the sides.” I know I’m no help. It’s my fault.
I take full responsibility. I realize my shortcomings, and that’s why I’m reaching out, for my sake and those men who just don’t understand hair and its intricacies.
I am still going to walk out secretly wishing you’d done a better job. Figure it’s full honesty time.