I Gave Myself A Haircut

I cut my own hair last night, which I believe is often a sign of mental instability. If it had turned out poorly, I would've blamed curiosity. My grandma would've somehow blamed Obama.

I haven't been to a barber for years. I have my own system now: when I start twirling my long hair like I'm some gum-popping skank trying to sleep with the local high school football team, I take a buzzer to my head in every direction that week.

This week, my hair was just starting to get to twirling length and, instead of risking the affectionate here-and-there family nickname of "Patches," I decided to challenge myself. I was going to do overtime for my job, but I was burned out on work and my wrist hurt. So, amped up on gettin' something done, I asked myself, "Could I cut my hair with scissors and not look like an escaped patient and/or hipster douchebag?"

The answer is apparently, "Hell yes."

Cutting your hair is easy as a guy who ultimately doesn't care about his hair. It's like one playful mess up there. Consider the act to be the safest form of self-mutilation. All I did was run my hands flatly through my hair and cut whatever was above my fingers. And I had a great time. I may never even do the buzzer again. Next time, I'll probably try something wild. Who knows? Andy Warhol had stupid haircuts all the time. Worse case scenario, I'm like Andy Warhol.

Just by saying that, I instantly became my favorite barber.

In fact, nobody whose cut my hair professionally has ever been what I wanted, and I've had all sorts of people. I've had the Rosie Perez lady tell me about her shitty ex-boyfriend, I've had the older Chinese woman ask me questions I didn't understand, I've had the white hot-shit sorority girl tell me about her whole stupid career as a stylist and comment on my apathy. I've even had the guy from Up buzz the side of my head and then ask, "Hey, wait, so what'd you say you wanted? Just a trim?" FUCK YOU, SPENCER TRACY. I WAS IN EIGHTH GRADE AND YOU TOTALLY SCREWED ME.

As a kid, my dad would cut my hair in the kitchen, like we were raised in the goddamn Dust Bowl. I liked it though. It was my first understanding of saving money. Did you know that a standard haircut at Supercuts is, like, thirteen bucks? I did what they did last night on a whim and a beer. Suck it, tentacles of this never-ending awful economy! Also, there's a lot of cool magazines in my bathroom. Do you really need five different magazines in the waiting area with Jennifer Aniston on the cover without owning up to a single issue of National Geographic? Jesus, Supercuts, people who like the rainforest and lion cubs need haircuts too.

This all works for me because I've never done anything especially edgy with my hair. I've just had different lengths. Once, I had a mohawk. Another time, I did spray-on dye for Halloween. Other than that, it's been natural brown and styles that have ranged from "spiked punk" to "Russian assassin." So, for me, cutting your hair is easy. If it goes terrible, all you have to do is wear nice clothes for a while and nobody will even notice your botched lobotomy.