"You look like a guy who cuts his own hair," she said.
Turning an insult back into a badge of honor.
Approx. 1600 words; eight minutes read time
The comment came swiftly. There was no mistaking her intent; she was dismissing me.
I had been chatting her up in the bar and thought there was some mutual attraction. But the moment she uttered the phrase, I knew our conversation was over.
"You look like a guy who cuts his own hair," she said.
The words were bitter. It was as if I had insulted her, and she was retaliating. But I had done nothing aside from show some interest. In looking back on that moment, I believe she felt superior to me. Her words certainly made me feel inferior at the time.
I collected myself before regrouping with my friends.
"How'd that go?" One buddy asked.
"She said I look like I cut my own hair."
"You do."
Both she, and my friend, were right.
I do cut my own hair.
This event happened over fifteen years ago. It was back in my grad school days at Washington State University. A Friday night if I recall. Truthfully, I remember little of that evening other than her smug tone and what she said.
Often after a long week of toiling with research and study, we'd gather at that pub to let off steam. Rico's Tavern - it was the unofficial graduate student bar. I, along with several classmates and a few professors, met up there almost every weekend. It was our bar, and it felt comfortable and familiar.
Rico’s clientele was older in an otherwise undergrad-dominated bar scene. I was in my late twenties then, and the guise of "maturity" suited me. But mature, we seldom were.
Yes, we were connoisseurs of hoppy ales. But we drank them with the same intent as a frat boy drinking light beer. The unspoken plan was to get drunk - and maybe talk with some girls. Hopefully, before the beer got the best of us.
Usually, though, we just got drunk.
On a typical Friday, Rico's was mostly empty, only slightly filled with us regulars and a few strays. Occasionally fresh faces would wander in. These newbies would arrive on game weekends or other special events, looking for a drink and a good time.
Invariably, they had mistakenly entered our pub expecting another kind of experience. A lively college bar Rico’s was not. Dark and dusty, old books lined the walls. The owner styled it a “jazz bar,” and it had the feel of some old tavern in Paris during the nineteen twenties.
The interlopers would maybe have a drink and then leave, off to find a more festive and younger-feeling establishment.
Perhaps she was one of those. I never saw her in Rico’s again. Or anywhere else for that matter.
"You look like a guy..." What did she mean by that? It was an insult, no doubt. But why? Was it a thing? And why, most importantly, did I care?
The rejection was still tingling minutes after she walked away.
Ordering another beer to calm the burn, I ran my fingers across the back of my head. I did cut my hair myself. But I had never been uncomfortable about it until then.
Self-reliance has always been a good thing in my family. My parents are resourceful folks, and they taught the value of DIY long before it was fashionable. So in my early twenties, when I first gave cutting my hair a try - and succeeded - I added it to the list of things I could do myself.
Granted, I don't have the most complicated hairstyle. I keep it short - a little longer on top with a slight taper down the back and sides. Rather than a part or other styling, I stick to a loose tousle. At the most, I spike it up a bit in the front, à la Matt LeBlanc from Friends. It's easy and low maintenance, two qualities I greatly appreciate.
Before my own efforts, I'd say that one in three "professional" haircuts I received was a disaster. Even the decent ones were flawed, but that’s to be expected of the five-buck-cuts I was getting back then.
My self-administered ones were arguably better. Rarely did I completely botch the job, and usually, I liked the result. Best of all, being able to cut my own hair, I could "tweak" it days later, as needed.
After grad school, and while climbing the professional ladder, I stopped with the self-cuts for a while. My high-level job had me often in suits, and I decided that a well-dressed man should have a "real" haircut. So I hung up my scissors and searched again for a good barber. But as before, rarely did I find one that could do any better than me. Even when I paid a premium.
Mind you, I’m not bragging. Or dismissing most hairstylists. I think cutting hair well is hard. And my odd head doesn’t make it any easier for anyone.
I didn’t realize how asymmetrical I was until I started cutting my own hair. My skull is a lumpy mess. No wonder random barbers had such a hard time!
Giving it a good cut, I surmised, would require skill, practice, and most of all - familiarity. Like learning the windy backroads around my rural childhood home, I committed to knowing it’s topography.
My head's not a complete mess (at least not on the outside). I do have a good side - relatively speaking. It's my right. There, the shape of my skull cooperates with my hair. Barely.
The left? I have to be careful when cutting it as my head is somehow flatter on that side. Too tight a trim there and it looks like a buzz-cut serviceman's.
I've also learned to always cut with the direction my hair falls - with the grain. Going against it ensures a "fresh-cut" look. And doing so invites inconsistencies, and worse still, the dreaded “notch.”
It took some doing, but I figured out what works and why. A little longer here. Be careful back there. Always cut this way.
I now know my head of hair and how to cut it.
Despite this, I rarely get a compliment like "great haircut!" But I've learned to do it in a way that leaves people saying, "Did you cut your hair? It looks nicer."
That I'd say is the best kind of haircut - one that doesn’t look new, only nicer.
Getting a professional haircut has its quality issues, but it can be a lot easier than DIY. The biggest problem with a haircut at home - for me anyway - is the mess. After a self-cut, my shorn hair covers the bathroom. It takes almost as long to clean up as it does to cut it.
Having a reliable, professional stylist sidesteps the mess issue. It's probably the main reason I stayed away from cutting my own hair again for so long. That, and I found a decent barber - for a while.
When we moved to San Diego over five years ago, I discovered a talented barber nearby. His haircuts were probably the best I'd had other than my own. I stuck with him for quite a while. It was easy, and I grew confident in him. He was a good guy and didn't talk too much.
But my excellent barber was up and coming and he moved locations twice in as many years. When I found him, he was working minutes from my house. It was perfect.
The first move landed him downtown, but it was next door to one of my favorite comics/pop-culture shops. So I didn't mind the monthly drive. I’d stop in for a trim and then go talk sci-fi with the fanboy next door.
The last move was a deal-breaker, however. He went off to a swanky neighborhood along the coast. Parking was terrible, and worst of all, his already expensive cuts went up by another 50%.
The interlude of professional haircuts had come to an end. I was back to doing my own.
After resuming my home haircutting, I started to wonder why I had ever gotten away from it. The cuts were good, and the price was right (always free). I could deal with the mess; like any of my projects, I would plan ahead and have a dust vac handy.
Best of all, the feeling of an excellent DIY haircut is much like anything else I make. I feel proud that I am proficient enough to pull it off.
As for needing a "professional" cut, that pretense has faded. After ditching a job that didn't suit me, the suits went away too. My new daily outfit - black three-quarter sleeve tees and jeans. It's my unofficial uniform. Along with a pair of Converse All-stars, I feel as dressed up as I ever want to be again.
And a self-cropped top ties the look together.
These days, when my hair needs a trim, I don't have to make an appointment or adjust my schedule. Instead, I pull out the trimmers and scissors and go to work.
It's done in thirty minutes and I am back to my life.
This self-reliance has proven useful time and time again. During the recent pandemic, for starters, I was one of the few not anxious about where and when I would get my next cut. And on the off occasion, I have something special to attend or do, I don’t worry about fitting into my barber’s busy schedule. My schedule is the barber’s schedule.
As for that girl from years ago - her words still creep in from time to time. Often while I am actually cutting my hair. “You look like a guy…”
Mostly I just chuckle. Since that encounter years ago, I’ve learned a thing or two about myself. My pride is less tarnishable. And my hair? There is less of that too, but what I still have I like. And I like cutting it myself. Most of all, I’ve learned to truly love what that says about me.
I do wonder, though, what she would have thought if she had met me a few years later. With a Ph.D. in hand and "CEO" on my office door, would she see a different guy? One who seems good enough in a suit with a spendy haircut? Good enough to keep the conversation going?
What would that say about her if she did? And what about me, if that’s what I aspired to?
Perhaps the achievements and suit wouldn’t fool her, though. Maybe she’d see past the facade and recognize the same me I’ve always been - the guy who looks like he cuts his own hair. After all, that is me, whether I am donning a self-styled cut or not.
That would be fine, I think.
Yes, I am a guy that cuts his own hair.
Now, where's my vacuum? I think someone sheared a Wookie in my bathroom.
Until next time. Science. Fiction. Create.
JRC