January 5

One of the things I hate spending a lot of money on is a haircut. I can't get around the idea of allotting any more than twenty dollars at most every month and a half on getting my hair cut when it's just going to grow right back again.

Because of this cheap and immature attitude, I've had bad haircuts for most of my life. I usually go to Supercuts where I try to explain what I think I want my hair to look like. When I lived in California, not only did I have to try clarify how I wanted to look, but I had to try and work around an English/Spanish language barrier. "I want it short around the sides and the back and a little bit longer up top so I can spike it or give it a 'messy' look...I don't know what number I want on the clippers - four? I don't want it too short. Do you understand? No, I said I don't want it real short." Usually at this point I would just give up and hope for the best.

I always felt like my hair looked its best about three weeks after getting it cut. I would have about a week of good looking hair and then I felt like it was time for a trim and I was back at square one where I couldn't remember what number I wanted.

After having my own thoughts about how bad my hair has been looking lately indirectly reaffirmed by a friend last night, I decided it was time for a step away from Supercuts. I made the decision to bite the bullet go into a place that I thought looked nice from the street and go from there. What was the worst that could happen? I would have a haircut that I didn't like? I was going to have that anyway!

The new place was Floyd's Barbershop. I had never heard of it, but liked the name and the logo on the side of the building. Upon entering, I expected to find three chairs at most in front of a mirror with a few older men waiting for their turn while reading the morning paper. If I was lucky, a sporting event would be broadcast on an old television set hanging in the corner. I would walk in to the sound of a pleasant jingle on the door caused by my entrance. A balding man with glasses and dressed in white would look towards the door mid-cut, smile and say, "Hello, young man. It will be just a few minutes. Feel free to have a seat."

What I got instead, was a huge room with about fifteen chairs along one side of the wall; a wall plastered with pictures of popular culture icons ranging from Elvis to Michael Jackson to Rage Against the Machine. Behind a central desk facing the front door sat a girl in her late twenties with dark, pixie-cut hair, a nose piercing, and tattoos reaching out of her collar and up her neck.

After being escorted to an empty chair by one of the stylists (also punk-esque), I tried to explain what I wanted done to my hair. She sat there with a blank look on her face and didn't really give me any sign that she had any clue what I wanted. Finally, she nodded and started clipping, snipping, and trimming away. Here we go again, I thought.

Just when I thought I was done, she turned around and produced a large white towel with steam coming off of it. She folded it once and wrapped it around the back of my head and tied it across my face. I have to admit, it felt pretty good, but I was concerned that I had stumbled into a pretty expensive routine. The stylist then removed the towel, applied shaving cream to the back of my neck and actually gave me an old fashioned shave and a back massage!

I haven't actually styled my hair myself yet after this adventure, but I'm anxious to see how it turns out. The experience ended up costing me more than I'm used to paying, but I didn't have that usual immediate regret I receive when I looked at myself in my rear-view mirror on the drive home, so maybe it was worth it.