Woodburn: some mind-blowing experiences

Have you ever had a bad haircut?

I mean really bad. Bad square. A haircut that makes your stylist look like you had hand tremors and advanced cataracts. A fiasco that you hide under a cap or a scarf for a month because it recalls the Rolling Stones song “Look What The Cat Dragged In”.

I’ve suffered my fair share of such haircuts, starting in my childhood when my father used electric dog clippers on my two older brothers and me. Why dog ​​shears, you ask? Because our Miniature Poodle Mac turned into a Tasmanian Devil when Pop tried unsuccessfully to groom him and screwed up if those brand new clippers got lost!

In college, I only had to blame myself when I started attending a local beauty school because it only cost five bucks. It may seem even more risky than facing dog clippers, but in truth, the haircuts usually didn’t turn out half bad, as the instructor touched up — or, if necessary, completely redid — everything. after the student has tried.

On a few occasions, however, even Vidal Sassoon couldn’t fix the initial effort. Stubbornly, like a person playing a slot machine, I kept pulling the $5 handle hoping for three cherries. Alas, “One More Try” too often led to two other Stones songs: “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” and “No Use Crying”.

My jaw-dropping story hit rock bottom one day when the student stylist-in-training kept trying to even out one side – snip-snip – then the other – clip-clip – then the first side again – snip -clip – and so on, until my Bjorn Borg locks were barely longer than the buzzing lawns of Wimbledon. I wore a knit beanie all spring semester.

In the years that followed, I tried small barbershops and big chains with “Super” and “Super Duper” in their names, but the results continued to be lemon-cherry-7. Until I hit the 7-7-7 jackpot with a woman named Rosa who cut my hair the way I like it – shorter than when I arrived, but didn’t look like it. have been cut. For the next five or six years, I was in haircut heaven.

And then came COVID-19. The longer the pandemic lasted, the more my hair grew. Three months became six months, then, stubbornly just for fun, a full year and beyond without a haircut. Finally, I tucked my Rapunzel mane back into the barber chair. A different chair, though, because Rosa’s shop had closed.

Another Rolling Stones song, “The Worst”, describes the result. Luckily, my weed-battered hair grew, and then some, by the time my son’s recent wedding unfolded. Not wanting to risk accentuating my groomsman’s tuxedo with a cap, I needed a Hair Mary miracle.

My much better half went to the same stylist – and, shh, colorist – since before my son was born, always with Hollywood-worthy results on the red carpet. “Try Patti,” urged Lisa. “She will do a great job.”

Patti’s place is a frisbee throw from the beach with a hippie vibe and even an antique barber pole inside. In other words, I loved it. As she drove to work, her adorable little dog sat nearby. His name is Jagger, like the rock star, so I don’t have to tell you the background music was great.

Jagger’s human namesake, Mick, sings the song “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction,” but I felt the complete opposite when I got up from Patti’s chair. It was the best haircut of my life.

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Star and can be reached at [email protected] His books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

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