For too many years I’ve been supporting the sociopathic corporations of the world by bringing my haircut business to the Supercuts conveniently located less than a mile from my home.
Not anymore, brother.
I’m sticking it to the man, baby.
It all started when I drove down to the local Supercuts for a quick buzz job last Sunday afternoon. Stepping through the door I was not greeted by a swooshy thirty-something hair stylist hairstylist with a whole lot of eye makeup and a half-dozen pieces of metal sticking out of his face. Three hairstylists were snipping away on their customers. Mister second rate Marilyn Manson finished sweeping up a pile of hair before casually strutting up to the counter.
“Can I help you?” he said, avoiding any semblance of eye contact and making it clear that helping me was the last thing he wanted to do.
“Can I get a tuna fish sandwich?”
This is my stock line for the ever changing array Supercuts employees who consistently ask me that ridiculous question.
“Right. We’re closed. We close at three, I’m sorry.
“Right,” I said turning and heading back to the car.
I really didn’t want that guy cutting my hair anyway. Inside the car, I turned the ignition key and the clock read 2:58. That’s when it hit me. It was time to find a new joint to cut my hair. Over the thirteen years I’d been frequenting the corner Supercuts, I’d received a few bad haircuts and a lot of mediocre haircuts, but they had only cut my hair the way I wanted twice. I usually shrugged and reminded myself that the difference between a bad haircut and a good haircut is about two weeks.
2:58.
I was tired of being pushed around by soulless corporations. Soulless corporations wear different faces too. On this particular day they wore the face of a thirty five year-old weirdo with eye makeup and a whole mess of metal stuck too his face who didn’t even bother to give up a courtesy laugh for my tuna fish sandwich line.
To be continued…
