The Hair Apparent

So, today I bit the bullet and got my very shaggy hair cut finally. I needed something shorter that would be "bed head" approved, as I will be resting for a while following next Tuesday's adventures under the knife. I went spontaneously to a different stylist than usual, one recommended by several friends. Since it was somewhat short notice I didn't have time to pull pictures of what I was looking for stylistically, so I knew that inevitably it would be a crap shoot of whether or not I liked the end result. But this could also be a fun adventure.

Her name is Anna, and she was born on Poland. I was sold. She has the most mild mannered hand shake to welcome me into the salon. While talking to me about my general life, and friends we have in common, we tried to size each other up about how far the other was going push this hairstyle that she was beginning to snip. We chatted the whole time, and got along great. But the entire time I kept wondering how I was being perceived. She asked me to take my red vintage ski half zip sweater, and I knew that my body would be revealed in my white fitted t shirt hiding underneath. I wasn't bothered by her possible revelation, but was curious about how it would be handled.

Anna was wonderful, gracious. We made each other laugh, and talked about businesses, and friends. And how mean people make all of the world work harder. She took off my shaggy curls, and told me that she was going to leave some random pieces of whispiness, while cutting it all back. I wanted to look tough and not too young in a weakling school boy stance on an icy playground at recess. Did she take off too much? Shit. Yet other parts still slightly curly here and there. I am confused.

Apparently I was not as confused about the haircut as she and the indie receptionist boy were about me. She slapped me her card on my way out, and helped me put on my vintage sweater and wooley wintery jacket. I thanked her, and watched her turn to walk back into the styling room. I then looked down to see the look of panic on the indie receptionist boy's face, as he had absolutely no clue what to charge me for my hair cut. Was I a boy (for the cheaper rate) ~ or was I a girl (for the more expensive rate)? As he scanned my face he felt even more pressured, and leapt out of his chair to tackle Anna and drag her into the shampoo area to discuss what was appropriate. They chatted and even laughed about it, which I know since when his eyes met mine while he was still smiling, he immediately looked down in shame.

I get it. It's weird. I'm weird. It's fine. Just let me know how much I fucking owe you for this haircut. A haircut with random whispy parts and sideburns too short. By the time he returned to the front desk, and I had put down my credit card, he said: "That will be $35."

They charged me for a guy's haircut. Will it work in the real world?