A Larry Gone Bad

"I'm so fucking pissed! I can't believe they think they can tell me who I can and can not see. I'm so pissed that I'm going to give you the best fucking haircut of you life! Come on sweetie."
These were the venomous-filled words that flew out of his mouth and hit me square across the face right before he led me into the chair. This short, strange, flamingly gay, tattooed man was now going to cut my hair. Yes, that's right I'm going to let this little freak put a sharp instrument next to my head and radically modify my hair. My hair that needed to be somewhat conservative, as it was less than a month away from my Mary's wedding, where I would be standing at the altar in a sangria-colored bridesmaid dress. Little did I know then that the next 30 minutes would involve a therapy session with a drug-addicted child porn star, complete with visual images and newspaper clippings.

I knew I shouldn't have gone to "Bob's." Its edginess makes me feel so conservative, and I'm not even that boring of a person. I only go because the $26 haircut is the best deal in this city. Since my usual hair dresser was away on leave, one of my classmates recommended me to this guy, assuring me that he would give me an amazing cut. She mentioned he might scare me, but failed to tell me that this guy was certifiably insane.

So there I am, sitting in this cold, ripped barbershop chair listening as he rants about how the woman next to him is trying to ruin his day because she is such a "fucking crack whore". Seeing that I'm harmless (and clearly someone trapped for the next 30 minutes) he continues to tell me that he has had a "horrible fucking two years." His grandfather died, his boyfriend died, his best friend died, but he is one year off meth and that is something to celebrate.

"I ran away when I was 14, sweetie. I was a gay child porn star. On the streets for years addicted to all sorts of shit. Then I was fucking partying with Courtney Love. I've slept with married men, Hasidic Jews – I've done it all. All men are pigs."

Okay, so that part my have seemed bad enough, but it could never have prepared me for the Pandora's Box that was about to be opened. “Here look at me.” He placed a weathered, red vinyl book in my hands, forcing me to open it with his frenzied gestures. "Look how fucking hot I was." As he was holding my hair in mid-air snipping away with a razor, I had no choice, but to flip through the sticky plastic pages, trying not to focus on how badly I wanted a bottle of Purell. I had to open this book. The fate of my hair was at stake here. Depending on my move, I could walk out of here with a mullet or rock star hair - neither of which was what I was going for, but at this point rock star hair was the preferred option.

So I had no choice. I opened it. Here he was in 30 different pictures, standing half naked, dressed in drag. I tried to quickly peruse the book, but every few seconds, he'd say "No, go back to that one. That was in a magazine. Look at my ass – fucking solid!"

At this point, I wanted to run out of that place full throttle with my smock on. I had no idea what he was doing to my hair as he turned my back to the mirror, refusing to let me look. When I tried to tell him what I wanted, he only muttered "I know your fucking hair, sweetie!" Sure, right. I'm certain this egocentric, rageaholic who has not asked me one question about my hair, knows precisely how I want it cut.

So I was stuck. Here I sat for the next 15 minutes, listening to how gay men are addicted to crystal meth. This time he had an article to go along with that story. Of course, he was featured in the article, his face proudly posted front and center.
After several sprays of hair spray and the use of a 1 ½" curling iron, we were done. He was finished with his work, and I had finished my role of therapist. I quickly paid the now questionably worth it $26 and fled to my car. I didn't even want to look in the mirror, for I was afraid of what I would see. I frantically clawed through my car for an emergency cigarette and sat there, defeated.