Worst in my life


The last haircut I got was at Chez Eye-reek, outside, on a sidewalk outside a cabin at Lake Brownwood. And it was great, really great. But that was September 29. I had gotten to the point where I needed another. I had an appointment with Eye-reek at Bô (informal appointment, be it what it may) for this past week, the week I was intending to be back in Austin. Now I am not going back until maybe Nov 14 and there are a ton of executives from California coming in to Ireland this week for product launches Friday. I needed a haircut!

I went downtown yesterday, intending to stop in a bookstore (Don't! Let! Me! Buy! Another! Book!), go to the Quay Co-op, and find a salon where a suitably skilled stylist will see the hidden magic behind my shaggy appearance, give me a knowing and appreciative nod, and set to work with the insouciant confidence of Edward Scissorhands. Immediately after dropping off my car, I was surprised to see one of the trainers from work and a couple of her German students. She had just completed training the Germans on the product we're launching in Germany Friday, and all three of them were in that happy state of exhausted and excited. Gillian heard what I needed and immediately suggested a salon for me (and OMG now that I am writing this, I can not even remember the name -- I even looked through my receipts from yesterday but I didn't keep the receipt since I am not expensing the haircut... Damn!). So, I went to the salon to take an initial walk-by assessment, and it looked acceptably professional. I made an appointment for a little later in the afternoon.

What a mistake. I awoke this morning looking like I had been kidnapped and had my hair abused by a drunken half-blind sadistic leprechaun.

And no, I won't post pictures so don't even ask.

One thing that I enjoyed about the place was that they offered you tea or coffee drinks. I ordered a cappuccino and it was as good as anything else I can find in this town outside of Cork Coffee Roasters. And free, did I say free?

The stylist appeared terminally bored by having to work that Saturday afternoon, or maybe it was just my hair. I told her I liked my current style, and only wanted a clean-up. Instead, she took to my hair with an evangelical zeal for giving me the same cut that every dipshit male in this city has. The sides are swept toward the front and the top is pulled up and to the middle in a kind of faux-hawk. I see this a few times in the US, but it seems to have infected the island like a virulent strain of MRSA. It is possible that this barbress zombie reverted to this style because it is the only men's style she has learned, and not because she took one look at me and said to herself, "Here's a bloke desperately in need of some trendy styling before he hits 40."

I did what repairs I could this morning with Bumble & Bumble's stable of products that travelled abroad with me, but couldn't help but face the morning with a poorly timed sense of despair.

Oh, and have I fallen prey to false confidence in unnecessary health care regulations in the US, or should I be concerned that she was pulling all of her haircutting implements out of an apron pocket, with nary a bottle of Barbicide to be found? Maybe my haircut was, in fact, infected! With trendiness. Damn.

Posted: Sun - November 4, 2007 at 07:29 PM        

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