I, naturally, responded in horror and disgust at the suggestion. Not only did I shrink back from the idea of spikes as not being my style, my reaction was mixed with self-defense: boyish spikey hair does not mix well with a full beard, and I had been nurturing1 just such a beard for about a month. Make me shave, will you, woman?2
Well, I would have none of that. Nevertheless, the words, once spoken, could not be bottled up again. A thousand nagging voices haunted my dreams3 and every waking moment. Nagging thoughts assulted my consciousness as I looked in the mirror each morning. I did need a haircut. In particular, the sides needed to be clipped soon, or they would start--nay, had started already--to poof out if I didn't take care to gel them down. Also, after volleyball or soccer, or Sunday morning children with their hands, all gel was rendered moot, and I had a '70's poofiness. Nor did my assailant relent in her barrage: despite all social impropriety of such an imposition, she repeated the suggestion. It began among her friends, but soon it came before her family (who are my friends), and not long after to the entirety of our shared peer acquaintance.
"And it came to pass, when she pressed him daily with her words, and urged him, so that his soul was vexed unto death"4
Now where was I? Ah yes, Hick's Lake. Well, the night before anyhow. I caved, so I shaved. Not all at once, though. I started with my moustache and chin, at which point I checked to see I I looked anything like Wolverine from the X-Men movies. I wouldn't leave it like that, but the thought had crossed my mind to go to wear it that way to work, just for laughs. Plus, it would annoy RFH to no end. No such luck, though. I don't make a convincing enough Logan, so I trimmed off the sideburns, washed up, and went to bed. In the morning I shaved with an actual razor, and it was then, when I saw the poofiness of my wild hair washed of natural oils and gel next to my now smaller-looking cleanshaven face, that I would have to say yes. But! She would have to ask me again. I was not going to volunteer for such a thing, or press her into it against her will.
As it happened, she asked me once more on Saturday. To her surprise and disbelief, I said yes. "Really? You'll let me spike it?" Really really.
She then somehow arranged (or had arranged) to have a set of clippers on hand, as well as some scissors, and at the stroke of eleven fifteen, we were headed downstairs as we were planning on cutting the hair near the kitchen and away from prying eyes. Somewhere along the line, Seth had joined us at the prospect of getting a free haircut (though he insisted despite our suggestions that his Pharaoh-esque goatee was strictly off-limits) and it was decided that he would be her "practice" run, so that we could all (she especially) gain confidence in her hair-cutting abilities, which I had recently discovered to be quite limited in scope: mostly canine, in fact.
Upon reaching the downstairs dining room, however, she discovered that it was full of "adults" as she called them, by which I suppose she meant people around the age of our parents. I've found in talking with "adults" and "old people" that despite age and infirmity, people generally go on the rest of their life subconciously thinking of themselves as twenty-something. But I digress.
Apparently all of these aforementioned adults presented a problem that prevented the haircuts from taking place downstairs. Personally, I didn't see a problem with cutting hair in front of them vs. everyone upstairs. In retrospect, they may have proved much more supportive and gotten just as much entertainment as the upstairs audience, but since she insisted, we set up shop outside the bathrooms upstairs and Seth sat down. At this point, and quite predictably, our small group of conspirators and onlookers became the focus of spectacle and entertainment for the rest of the young people for the rest of the evening.
Seth's haircut was rather simply, and quite quickly accomplished. There was one length for the top, and onother for the back and sides, and then a matter of trimming around the ears and across the neck.
Seth looking confident
Not so bad
Everyone's a critic
This shot also serves as the "before" picture for me.
The clippers made short work of it, and then it was my turn.
Digging right in
TAB to the rescue
Action shot
Blatant posing
The clippers
More cutting
Jenny back in the action
There was lots of fear, uncertainty, and doubt floating around as to the final outcome of the ordeal. Many of the onlookers thought I would end up having to buzz it all off in the end.
TAB kept hacking away
It was discovered that Andrea has a bit of experience with the clippers. After an initial debate as to whether or not she wanted to involve herself in such a potential catastrophe, her pity won out, and she lent a hand.
I really should have pinned the towel tightly around my neck, it was supposed to prevent hair from getting all over me.
If we can't laugh at ourselves, then we're in pretty bad shape.
Working her way around the back.
Inspection
Two cents
I'm trying to grow some of that hair back.
Shorter on the top
Looks okay from this angle
Double team
Bethany takes a closer look
Spectators
Ted offered to make an appointment with his 'stylist' (Marie) for me in the morning if necessary.
Touch-up
Final trim
Gel
Gel applied
First look
A note on the pictures: Lisa wishes you all to know that she took most of them, although Gerald took some, and Bethany, and I took some of Seth.
So there you have it. Sunday morning was abuzz with looks, glances, questions, and assurances that "it doesn't look all that bad" (yeah, thanks a lot). I think it turned out pretty well, though. I didn't get any double-takes at work (though possibly they were avoiding the issue, who knows?) At least it was free, right? And it was fun. I'm still not convinced that the whole spiked hair thing is "me," although it seems to be the style these days.
I got an e-mail from my mom the day after I got back inquiring about my "haircut experience." Word travels fast, apparently. Hopefully, this fills in the requisite details.
0 Or whatever color her randomness is. Some say it's blond, but I am skeptical of such a simplistic explanation.
1 Read: "not shaving because I don't like to"
2 No, ladies, this is not an accurate reflection of my inner monologue. It simply suits my bone-dry sense of humor to portray myself in this manner. It's my attempt at irony, and actually hints at the incongruity of myself as a chauvinist. Not at all dissimilar to a certain someone's fondness for the expression, "for shizzle."
3 See? This is totally ridiculous. Pure melodrama if you ask me. 4 Did you seriously think I could resist the comparison?
