Something started to go horribly wrong at the end of my 15-minute haircut. Everything you tried to do to fix it just made it worse. But I couldn’t get too upset because I’ve been in your shoes before, one way or another. Plus, you were really nice, and it was funny watching your face squinch up with consternation and concealed panic as you futilely attempted to contain the spreading crewcut. I was on to you and you knew it, so I just sat blank-faced to let you squirm for a while. I broke into a grin once the situation became ridiculous, which caused you to finally laugh, too. Twenty minutes into overtime, the tacit understanding I think we reached was that we were now “experimenting” with a “new look.” Once there wasn’t much left of my hair, gel was brought in in a last-ditch attempt to unify the remaining uneven patches into something truly ghastly and unbefitting someone of my age. See? Looks great! Of course it does. But no worries. . . . Hair grows back, and I have a hat. But, just the same, I’ll probably go to someone else next time.
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