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News Bad haircuts. Especially yours.

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.

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 any better than I could, nor would they send me to a cheapo barber. Because I also had two young brothers who still required much attention, spending money on my pubescent haircut wasn't a priority.

My pops shaved my head. My mom placed an imaginary bowl and shaved around it.

Me. I would shave the side and back (using a well placed extra mirror in the bathroom) and spike the top. I was 12. I wanted to look cool, unlike the first 11years (and 20 after). I thought I was cool for having the extended Howie long cut. My sixth grade teacher, Ms. U., had the swagger to tell 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. She was right about both. Three years later I found out I had a different Dad. And when I was 8, I peed into a socket.

Back to haircuts. I had this wet gel spikey box cut in sixth grade. It was terrible. My sides/back was bald and the spikes of idiocy rested gathered laughs from my scalp.

In third grade my mother showed me how to use a blow dryer. That’s because I walked in on her doing her own hair. So now I have the blown dried spike cut. It’s a soft edged box that Howie Long would make fun of while tackling me repeatedly until I stopped copying his do.

After the dry cut, I decided to experiment with long hair. I grew my hair long enough that my frontal hair (I refuse to say I had bangs) was long enough to go in my mouth. It was parted in the center and I developed mental issues of angrily crying and breaking things like an Emo science project in the mall food court. I would punch the clear plastic cases of my cassettes and watch my knuckles bleed. I was smart though, I never once broke an actual cassette tape because I knew later that day I would want to listen to it. Only people with real psychiatric problems break things that they like. I was a genius. I broke trash. Other people are stupid and crazy.

Soon after the long Emo (before it was cool) emotional phase, I realized I was being a more stupid than that kid in Flowers for Algernon. Then I shaped up, cut my hair, and became normal. I began cutting my friends hair. I carved letters of now uncool bands like House of Pain in their heads and performed nearly flawless fade cuts. I learned how to do this by watching Frank from the "Haircut Place" on Morrell Ave razor me into a perfect cut every four weeks. No lessons. Just 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 saved them money we needed to split six packs of St. Ide's Special Brew. It’s a great when you can trust the person cutting your hair won't give you a mullet.

I haven’t brushed my hair since 1997. To this day, I’ve received the same haircut since 1997: a very short fade on the sides, trim on the top. My hairstyle is whatever I feel like that day. Whether I go to work or a club/bar, I do the same thing. I place a drop or so of some Got2be(glued) on my palms, rub it into hair, and swing it freestyle.

Now it's 2014 and I'm back to shaving my head. 20 years of haircuts proves that history repeats itself. I'm just so sick of doing my hair for work, that with a shaved head, I can sleep for 11 extra minutes each day. I also have a receding hairline and can't grow it long like I used to. No more rat tail or emo bangs.

Maybe that's a good thing.
 
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