Because I am having my work featured in an art gallery in early January, I thought it would be great for me to be at the opening night. I was hoping to see many of my fans, my friends, and anyone else who wanted to see my photography. Since this gallery show is very important to me, I figured I'd cut my hair into a sexy style for the show. I know I had promised my family and some of my friends I wouldn't cut it until after 2007, but since I wanted to look my best - and my current hair length doesn't suit me - they agreed that I could cut my hair "just this once."

So after calling around to several hair salons to make sure I could have my haircutting photographed, I found a place that said, "Sure, anything you want." I quickly set up my hair appointment that day for the 23rd of December and then forgot about it.

I got my eyebrows waxed, like I do every month, by my favorite waxing artist and fixed my frames at the gallery. (That was a pain to do - changing the cool frames and mats I had picked out to matching black frames and white mats). My outfit for the gallery was already purchased and sitting in my closet. Oh so hot! The shoes and the snow won't mix, but it'll be fun to try!

So anyway, the big day comes, December 23rd. My photographer shows up at the door and I ride with him to the salon. Once there, I give the woman at the desk my name and we have to wait ten minutes. We take off our coats and hang them up. I get called back and my photographer follows with his big camera and tripod.

The photographer was setting up his equipment while I was sitting in the chair and discussing what I wanted from the hairstylist, showing her my drawing and a photo, when a woman talked up to my photographer and said, "You can't use that in here."

My skin chilled. "What? What do you mean?" I asked. "I was told that I could get my haircut photographed. That's the only reason I chose this place."

"Who said that?" she asked in a prissy tone.

"The manager. When I talked with him on the phone a couple weeks ago, he said it would be okay."

She gave me a dirty look. "Doesn't matter. He's not here and I am. I'm the manager when he's gone. Take that camera out of here."

The photographer began putting his camera away and folding up his tripod.

"Fine," I said, "I can always go somewhere else."

The woman began to laugh. "Go ahead and try. You won't find a single opening. All shops will be booked; they always are during the holidays. You're lucky you got in."

Bitch! I thought. I know she's right about the appointment part. Even some of the other salons I talked to said that I was calling at a good time because they book up quickly because of the holidays.

The photographer and the woman looked at me. My head was spinning. "Okay, fine. We'll put away the camera. No big deal. Thank you."

The woman watched as the photographer finished packing up his stuff, brought it all to the car, come back in and sit down in the waiting area.

The woman then left.

The stylist cleared her throat. "Back to your hair!" she said. "What did you want again?"

"I want my hair just like this drawing and photo. But I want my hair dyed black."

The stylist took the drawing and the photo and studied them.

"I want it long in front and angling upward, up the back. Then I want the rest shaved smooth."

She gave the papers back to me and held my chin in her cold hands. She turned my head side to side. "Sorry, Honey, your is hair too short. We can dye it black though."

"Can't you even try? I want it short, something sexy."

"I can try to do something with it, but I can't make any promises that the hair will turn out like those pictures."

She took a blue cape from the drawer and put it around my neck. She pumped up the chair, grabbed a squirt bottle and a comb and began to wet and comb my hair.

"Should we dye my hair first?" I asked.

Without stopping her work she answered, "No. I prefer to do that last. The color takes better on freshly cut hair."

Once she was done wetting and combing my hair, she took out some clips to put my hair up.

"No, I don't want my hair layered, so you don't need those. I want the hair to be sharp. I want it to look like it just got cut."

"Okay." She put the clips back and brought out a scissors. "Whatever you say."

As she began clipping my hair, I started to wonder if I made the correct decision. I knew already that I was going to tell that one bitch off before I left. I'd love to fire her ass.

The hairstylist cut my hair some on the left, some on the right, going back and forth, pulling my hair, combing it down, trying to make sure it balanced. When she was nearing the middle of the side of my head, that one bitch came by, I never noticed her until it was too late. She bumped the hairstylist, causing her to cut off a large chunk that she shouldn't have cut off.

It fell heavily in my lap; I looked at it and then I looked up. I saw the stylist looking at the bitch woman, and I saw that the bitch woman had a smile on her face.

"Sorry," she said as she began to walk away.

"You mother-fucking bitch!" I shouted. "You fucking asshole. Du Schlampe!" I picked up all the hair in my lap at threw it at her. "There's no fucking way I'm paying for this, chinga tu puta madre!" Everyone in the salon was looking at me. "That bitch caused this stylist to fuck up my hair!"

The stylist looked scared. My photographer came running over. "Fuck it," I said, "where the hell is the clippers. I'll do this myself."

The stylist just stood there. "Fine, fuck it!" I stood up out of the hair and grabbed the clippers from the shelf. Luckily they were already plugged in. If not, I probably would have thrown them against the mirror…and that probably would have caused the cops to come and arrest me for damaging property.

I flipped the clippers on, looked at my butchered haircut, and drove the clippers right in. I began clearing my head from the rest of the hair that was left. The salon was dead silent, except for my clippers creating the atmosphere to fill everyone's ears.

After awhile the hypnotizing sound of the clippers calmed down my rage, but I only focused on my head and my cutting job.

When I finished running the clippers back and forth and all around my head, I handed the clippers to the photographer. "Please take care of any areas that I missed."

I glanced about, but the bitch as no where to be seen. The hairstylist had also left, probably realizing that she was no longer needed.

The photographer finished clippering my head, gently working round my ears, and then he handed the clippers back to me. I turned them off, but kept them in my left hand. I took the barber brush off the shelf and swept over my face and neck. I'll just have one of my friends do a lather and razor shave on my nape later, I thought.

When finished, I let both drop to the floor. One woman let out a gasp; I think the noise frightened her.

I ripped the cape off and let it too fall to the ground. I brushed myself off with my hands, looked at the photographer and said, "We can go now."

We took our coats and left. No one tried to stop us, and no one spoke probably until we were out of sight.

So now I'm nearly bald again. And because I am, I'm going to stay this way for awhile. I did always miss it when I had hair. So now I'm back. *evil grin*

My "After" Photo

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