Fun Times at the Seattle Beauty School

So I look at the store-front window...it's the classy "black block lettering on a white cardboard backing" type of sign. But the design wasn't that important -- the important thing was what was writ therein. "Men $10." I was (and sometimes still am) a man. I had more than $10 in cash on me at the time. Seemed a match made in heaven.

"Ten dollars?" quoth I. "That's a good price. You can't beat that with a stick" (I like to use old colloquialisms that hint at violence. I also like to quoth myself). So I go in, with images of "Frenchie" from Grease floating in my head -- poor, misbegotten teenaged ladies with an earnestness that shines through their lack of ability.

Instead, I'm greeted at the door with the scent of acrylic nail polish. But I'm not talking a little...it was as if someone had smeared a line of nail polish remover across my upper lip -- Dirty Sanchez style (if you don't get that, I refuse to explain). No problems, thinketh I (did Medieval people "thinketh?" I'd like to believe they did). I've endured several iterations of ladies that I was living with turning a sweet-smelling "vanilla tinged" bathroom into a nostril-burning, paint-mixing sweat lodge...I figure I can take a half hour of quasi-huffing for a hair trim.

Next thing to greet me -- a 40ish, 5 foot-ish, poor English speaking-ish Vietnamese woman. "You want hair-cut?" she said, with an accent closely resembling that of the good people residing in the country of Vietnam, in a way that was not even remotely stereotypical or offensive. She then grabbed an apron and said "Fifty dollah, G.I. Me cut you long time."

Okay, she didn't say that. It was more along the lines of "You sit here." Beckoning to an early-70's era barber seat -- probably on loan from an early 70's era dentist office...minus the sweet "motorized reclining action." Anyhow, I sit. Nervous now. Disappointed that I didn't see one naive woman in there with a garishly dyed hair style...but rather an entire shop full of about 20 middle-aged-to-old Asian women. And three nervous white dudes already strapped into their chairs.

As she's buttoning the hair-catching apron about me, she asks, "How you like? How you like?" I respond, trying my hardest not to come off like a condescending English-as-a-first-languager (because when I hear people talking to non-English speaking people as if they were morons, I just want to grab a hula-hoop and just hula, and hula, and hula until all the anger goes away. Y'know?). "I like it short. I mean. Shorter than it is now, but the same kind of style. Maybe, an inch or two long?" She is aghast. "An inch?! Short?! That's very short!" "Er...yeah...maybe an inch an a half? Two? Longer on top than in the back." "Oh...oh...uh...okay. Okay." She then goes about her "business."

Meaning: "she starts to cut." No small talk here. Just the steady buzz of the clippers, followed by the steady snip of the scissors. I come to find out she's in love with the comb -- it finds its way in the proceedings with both clipper and scissor. In fact, I don't think she dropped the comb the entire time she was back there working her "magic." Maybe she got it accidentally glued to her hand or something.

But work her magic she did. For about an hour. Or two. Honestly, I think she must have been snipping a millimeter at a time from my dome. Meanwhile, I'm starting to see Smurfs dancing across the table in front of me lip-synching to Beach Boys songs (or maybe that was the nail polish remover high talking. Boy I hope so...because those Smurfs really sucked -- none of them knew any of the words to Kokomo, they were just dancing around and laughing through the whole song. It was embarrassing).

Finally, pushing through hour #3 (or so...hyperbole may be afoot), she speaks for the first time since she threw the apron across me. "Is good length?" I give it the ol' run-through with the ol' fingers. It's about 7 millimeters shorter than when I walked in -- that's about 2.3 millimeters an hour, by my calculations. "Umm..." I say, really pondering whether I could stand another go around of Brainy slurring his way through California Girls. "It's...um...I don't know...if...um..."

Luckily, before I can make the decision to either cut my losses and go to a real hair salon, or suffer through another 7 millimeters or so (until the shop closed for the night) another 40-something Asian woman intervenes. She starts talking to my stylist in Vietnamese, then turns to me, "Is that a good length?" she says, using much more fluent English. "Um...it could be a little bit shorter. I think. Maybe. I don't know." I didn't want to offend stylist #1...but at the same time, $10 is a good price, but only if they actually cut the hair. Otherwise, it's basically a ticket to "Smurfs in Concert."

So stylist #2 snatches the clippers like a woman posessed, and swiftly goes at my head with them -- sans comb. It's great. The hair flies off of my head like a group of flies that was just shooed away from a person's head. Once her hack-job is complete, stylist #2 leaves so stylist #1 can tidy up. #1 timidly offers, "Sorry...I was scared to cut it so short." Ah. Great.

Finally, after another hour-or-so of touch-ups (and a surprise guest appearance by Azrael -- who did the MC Skat Kat lines with Smurfette in the song Opposites Attract. A real crowd pleaser, I must say), I scamper out. And, because I'm a sucker, I give the horrible hair-stylist-in-training a $3 tip. It was the worst pity tip ever.

I get home, and tell Erika this story. And she laughs it off...oh silly Tyler. Then we get ready for bed, and she sees the "shelf" on the back of my head. That's right, the standard "fade" up the back was apparently not being taught at the Seattle Beauty School. Instead, it was a mullet-in-training. Something along the lines of this:

Pretty bad. I think, "Meh, it'll grow out." Erika thinks otherwise, and practically drags me by my ear to a real barber to fix the mess.

And it was fixed. Thank the heavens. So take this as a cautionary tale -- there is such as thing as a "horrible haircut" for men. You might think it's easy...but take it from me (and stylist #1 & #2), it can be botched pretty easily.