There comes a time in everyone's life when your parents stop pretending they're barbers, stop being cheap, and stop using the "Flobee" and bowls to give you that pathetic haircut you always had.? It?s a time when you start making decisions on your own and reveal your true identity, or try to fit in with the in-crowd which obviously delusions your identity and creates a human mirage for the masses.
My pops shaved my head. My mom placed an invisible bowl on my head and cut around it. No matter what, I still had a rat tail. Those were our only options as kids. I began cutting my own hair when I was twelve. I went to a private school and my classmate's haircuts were incredibly nice. My parents couldn't cut hair that good, but they wouldn't send me to a barber. Because I also had two young brothers who still required much attention, spending money on things you can "do yourself at home" things was not a priority. I shaved the side and back (using a well placed extra mirror in the bathroom) and spiked the top.? I thought I was cool for having the extended Howie long cut. My sixth grade teacher told me that I looked like I had poked something into an electric socket.
Then she told me I look nothing like my brothers, which is almost true, and three years later I found out I was kind of adopted.
Anyway, I had this wet gel spiky box cut in sixth grade. It was terrible. My sides/back was bald and the spikes of idiocy poked out of my head. I looked like a human cactus who shed its needles on the side, a total idiot, no chance of ever getting a girlfriend. Or at least not an intelligent one. Soon I experimented with long hair.? I grew my hair long enough that my frontal hair was long enough to chew on. It was parted in the center and I was now an emo kid who liked rap and probably didn't fit in anywhere, even with the emo kids. Soon I cut my hair to something not so bizarre looking. I began cutting my friends hair. I carved letters of bands in their heads and performed nearly flawless fade cuts.
I learned how to do this by watching Frank from the Haircut Place (that's the real name) slice and dice people into the perfect cut. No lessons. Nothing but observation. I performed his mechanics on my friend's heads and saved them all 15 bucks per cut and we bonded as friends. They trusted me, and I was able to let someone know they can trust me.
It's a great feeling when you can trust that the person cutting your hair isn't out to make you look like a porcupine. I haven't brushed my hair since 1997. Now it has a mind of its own, can't grow long because my hairline grew, but my hair didn't. My hairstyle is whatever. A short cut. Super fun, right? The more you age, the less your hair grows, so at least I experimented with the weird cuts back in the day.
Glad I had at least one shot of long rock star hair! What I want to know is what your haircut history is? Do you have embarrassing parental haircuts? Terrible barber jobs? Barbaric bowl cut? Hairstylist nightmares?
I know you've had some screwed up haircuts in your lifetime, so tell me about them.