As someone who puts as much stock in my own appearance as the amount of fruit I eat, I am fine with a quarterly haircut schedule. This means my hair can get big and long and unruly, much like a Michael Bay film. But recently, when I noticed that I had more hair than the female members of my family, I decided that it was time to lighten the load.

So sit back, relax, and let me take you not so far back to a salon far, far away (Leicester).

I arrived at my designated appointment time into a rather desolate looking salon. There were only two other customers by my counting. But the way they set up the mirrors in places like that, I could have just been seeing myself from different angles. I am taken to my mirrored throne and told that Chelsea (not the football team or place) would be with me momentarily. In this moment I start trying to read the mirrored magazine headlines from the shelf behind me and making up funnier ones in my head. I don’t get far before Chelsea arrives into my peripheral vision and I have to pretend that I’m not a crazy person.

I am asked what I want done today and I probably should have given it more thought before blurting “I want you to cut off some of my hair”. We negotiated and settled for an inch off the length and giving it a bit more shape. Possibly we should have discussed which shape, but before I could, I was whisked off (not literally) to get my hair washed.

This bit rates up as one of the highlights of every trip. In fact, I would probably pay money to just come in and have my hair washed. It’s not so much the shampoo stage, but the conditioner. As they work the conditioner in, they always, and I mean always, deliver a full head massage. But I have a problem here. The massage really encourages you to relax, but if I do that and let the massage carry me away, I WILL end up making a noise. Probably along the lines of “ohhhh yeah, that’s it”, and I imagine this could make the situation more than a little awkward. Even more so as it was the girl’s first day working there, the last thing she needed was some fluffy idiothole blurting out bad porno lines. If I did that, I might as well ask her who her daddy is. In for a penny, in for a pound.

I was taken back to my chair and asked if I’d like a drink. I asked for a Coke but told they only had Diet Coke. Once again I had to activate my brain to mouth filter, because saying “at least you’re looking after my body”, would definitely have been inappropriate. I am just a publicly awkward person, which is why I tend to stay at home. Who would have thought getting a haircut would be such a minefield?

The haircut commenced and straight away, my hair was brushed to the one side and in the mirror stared back an unnerving Hitler hair style, but the hair was longer, so I looked more like an 80’s metal Hitler. As more a bit more was cut off, it was swept back to a more emo Hitler and then as the shape was rounded off, I converted to a 60’s hippy Beatles Hitler. This haircut was getting strange; it was like Hitler through the ages. But asking her to stop making me look like Hitler would have made the rest of the cut most uncomfortable. Brain to mouth filter, engage.

And then with a brief flick of my hair, my reflection became even more horrifying. I looked like Justin Bieber. There always seems to be one point in every haircut where this happens, so I was prepared. It seems that “The Bieber” is a transitional look, which may explain why it is difficult to define his gender. But thankfully, with a few snips of the scissors and a little spray wax, the previous look disappeared and my cut was complete.

I got up from the chair and brushed myself down and realized it looked like Cousin Itt had had a panic attack. Either that or a Wookie lost a bet and received a full body shave. Diet Coke in hand, I paid and walked out with my head 7.8kg lighter.

But ultimately, I guess the moral of this story is this; there is a fine line between Hitler and Justin Bieber. Consider yourself warned Beliebers.

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