Let me start by saying I don’t hate barbers. I hate the experience of being in a barber’s chair. It’s like a weirdly intimate therapy session where instead of crying, you’re trying not to sneeze while someone waves scissors near your eyeballs. (Also, why do they always ask, “What are we doing today?” as if I’ve secretly trained at Vidal Sassoon since my last trim? Sir, I want the same thing I always want: to look less like a middle-aged raccoon.)
The Pre-Cut Interrogation
You walk in, and immediately, it’s a vibe check. The barber glances at you, then at the row of empty chairs, and says, “Just you?” like you’ve brought a ghost entourage. Then comes the Question: “What are we doing today?”
- Me, sweating: “Uh, just a trim? Like, shorter but… the same?”
- Barber, squinting: “So… a 2 on the sides, faded, with texture on top?”
- Me, nodding: “Sure. Yeah. That.” (I don’t know what any of that means. I’m just here to avoid looking like I’ve been electrocuted.)
The Small Talk Gauntlet
Once you’re trapped under the cape (a glorified plastic bib), the real horror begins: forced conversation.
Barber: “Got any plans this weekend?”
Me: “Oh, not much. Maybe… laundry?” (I panic-lie. Laundry? Really? I’m 34.)
Barber: “Cool, cool. I’m taking my kids to Disney.”
Me: “Nice!” (Internally: Why did I say laundry? Why am I like this?)
The silence that follows is louder than the clippers. You stare at your own reflection, noticing things you’ve never noticed before. (Is my nose crooked? Why is one eyebrow higher? Am I… aging in real time?)
The Mirror: A Relentless Truth-Teller
The mirror in a barbershop isn’t a mirror. It’s a HD livestream of your poor life choices. You’re forced to watch as your hair—the one thing hiding your receding hairline—falls to the floor like confetti at the world’s saddest party.
“Just thinning it out a bit on top,” the barber says cheerfully, as you mentally calculate how many hats you own.
The “Trust the Process” Lie
Halfway through, the barber spins you away from the mirror. “Let’s surprise you!” they joke. (It’s not a joke. It’s a threat.) You sit there, neck prickling with stray hairs, praying to every god that they don’t “get creative.”
Snip. Snip. Buzz.
“Looking sharp!” they say. You have 47 minutes of cut left. The optimism is crushing.
The Final Reveal (Spoiler: It’s Never Good)
They spin you back, grinning like they’ve just sculpted Michelangelo’s David. “What do you think?”
- Option 1: It’s fine. Not great, not terrible. Just… hair. You say, “Looks good!” (It doesn’t. But you’re tired, and they’re holding sharp objects.)
- Option 2: It’s a crime against humanity. Your head resembles a half-mowed lawn. You say, “Looks good!” (Because confrontation is scarier than looking like a deranged Lego man.)
You pay, tip (out of guilt, not satisfaction), and spend the next three days wearing a beanie in 80-degree weather.
Why I Keep Going Back (A Tragic Love Story)
I hate the barber, but I hate my hair more. It’s a toxic relationship. Every six weeks, I think, “Maybe this time will be different.” Maybe this barber will get me. Maybe they’ll notice the subtle asymmetry of my face and compensate with shear genius. (Pun intended. I’m not sorry.)
But no. I leave looking like a slightly tidier version of myself, feeling like I’ve just survived a mildly traumatic playdate.
The Dark Side of “Just a Trim”
Once, I asked for “just a trim.” The barber nodded, then proceeded to give me a buzz cut. “It’ll grow back!” they chirped. (It did. Six months later.) Another time, I left with bangs. Bangs. At 34. My Zoom calls that week were… humbling."
And let’s not forget the Great Sideburn Incident of 2019, where I accidentally walked out looking like a 19th-century prospector. My partner didn’t speak to me for two days.
A Love Letter to Hats
Hats get me. Hats don’t judge. Hats don’t ask about my weekend plans. Beanies, baseball caps, fedoras I’m too cowardly to wear in public—they’re my emotional support accessories.
But society frowns upon wearing a beanie to a wedding. So, here I am. Back in the chair.
The Barber’s Secret Power
Here’s the twist: Barbers know things. They’ve seen your cowlicks, your double crowns, your secret bald spot. They know you’ve been using dollar-store shampoo. They’ve heard your “laundry” lies. And yet… they let you live.
Maybe that’s the real magic. Not the haircut, but the grace of a stranger who’s seen you at your most vulnerable—half-shaved, covered in clippings, lying about your hobbies—and still says, “See you next time.”
I hate the barber. But I’ll be back in six weeks, because hope is a hell of a drug—and split ends are worse.
(Got a barber horror story? Share below. Misery loves company… and a good beanie recommendation.)
Let me start by saying I don’t hate barbers. I hate the experience of being in a barber’s chair. It’s like a weirdly intimate therapy session where instead of crying, you’re trying not to sneeze while someone waves scissors near your eyeballs. (Also, why do they always ask, “What are we doing today?” as if I’ve secretly trained at Vidal Sassoon since my last trim? Sir, I want the same thing I always want: to look less like a middle-aged raccoon.)
The Pre-Cut Interrogation
You walk in, and immediately, it’s a vibe check. The barber glances at you, then at the row of empty chairs, and says, “Just you?” like you’ve brought a ghost entourage. Then comes the Question: “What are we doing today?”
- Me, sweating: “Uh, just a trim? Like, shorter but… the same?”
- Barber, squinting: “So… a 2 on the sides, faded, with texture on top?”
- Me, nodding: “Sure. Yeah. That.” (I don’t know what any of that means. I’m just here to avoid looking like I’ve been electrocuted.)
The Small Talk Gauntlet
Once you’re trapped under the cape (a glorified plastic bib), the real horror begins: forced conversation.
Barber: “Got any plans this weekend?”
Me: “Oh, not much. Maybe… laundry?” (I panic-lie. Laundry? Really? I’m 34.)
Barber: “Cool, cool. I’m taking my kids to Disney.”
Me: “Nice!” (Internally: Why did I say laundry? Why am I like this?)
The silence that follows is louder than the clippers. You stare at your own reflection, noticing things you’ve never noticed before. (Is my nose crooked? Why is one eyebrow higher? Am I… aging in real time?)
The Mirror: A Relentless Truth-Teller
The mirror in a barbershop isn’t a mirror. It’s a HD livestream of your poor life choices. You’re forced to watch as your hair—the one thing hiding your receding hairline—falls to the floor like confetti at the world’s saddest party.
“Just thinning it out a bit on top,” the barber says cheerfully, as you mentally calculate how many hats you own.
The “Trust the Process” Lie
Halfway through, the barber spins you away from the mirror. “Let’s surprise you!” they joke. (It’s not a joke. It’s a threat.) You sit there, neck prickling with stray hairs, praying to every god that they don’t “get creative.”
Snip. Snip. Buzz.
“Looking sharp!” they say. You have 47 minutes of cut left. The optimism is crushing.
The Final Reveal (Spoiler: It’s Never Good)
They spin you back, grinning like they’ve just sculpted Michelangelo’s David. “What do you think?”
- Option 1: It’s fine. Not great, not terrible. Just… hair. You say, “Looks good!” (It doesn’t. But you’re tired, and they’re holding sharp objects.)
- Option 2: It’s a crime against humanity. Your head resembles a half-mowed lawn. You say, “Looks good!” (Because confrontation is scarier than looking like a deranged Lego man.)
You pay, tip (out of guilt, not satisfaction), and spend the next three days wearing a beanie in 80-degree weather.
Why I Keep Going Back (A Tragic Love Story)
I hate the barber, but I hate my hair more. It’s a toxic relationship. Every six weeks, I think, “Maybe this time will be different.” Maybe this barber will get me. Maybe they’ll notice the subtle asymmetry of my face and compensate with shear genius. (Pun intended. I’m not sorry.)
But no. I leave looking like a slightly tidier version of myself, feeling like I’ve just survived a mildly traumatic playdate.
The Dark Side of “Just a Trim”
Once, I asked for “just a trim.” The barber nodded, then proceeded to give me a buzz cut. “It’ll grow back!” they chirped. (It did. Six months later.) Another time, I left with bangs. Bangs. At 34. My Zoom calls that week were… humbling."
And let’s not forget the Great Sideburn Incident of 2019, where I accidentally walked out looking like a 19th-century prospector. My partner didn’t speak to me for two days.
A Love Letter to Hats
Hats get me. Hats don’t judge. Hats don’t ask about my weekend plans. Beanies, baseball caps, fedoras I’m too cowardly to wear in public—they’re my emotional support accessories.
But society frowns upon wearing a beanie to a wedding. So, here I am. Back in the chair.
The Barber’s Secret Power
Here’s the twist: Barbers know things. They’ve seen your cowlicks, your double crowns, your secret bald spot. They know you’ve been using dollar-store shampoo. They’ve heard your “laundry” lies. And yet… they let you live.
Maybe that’s the real magic. Not the haircut, but the grace of a stranger who’s seen you at your most vulnerable—half-shaved, covered in clippings, lying about your hobbies—and still says, “See you next time.”
I hate the barber. But I’ll be back in six weeks, because hope is a hell of a drug—and split ends are worse.
(Got a barber horror story? Share below. Misery loves company… and a good beanie recommendation.)
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