When moving to a new neighborhood, there are 3 essential places you need to find: a place to get your groceries, a place to get your haircut, and a place where a few extra bucks gets you a special type of massage. Luckily for me, after my recent move, it took me almost no time to find the first and the third places, but I’d been struggling to find a place to get my hair cut.
I tried one place, the closest to my apartment, but the man cut it for less than 10 minutes and it looked so bad that, much like a teenage girl going through a phase, I ended up just going home and buzzing my own head. The next place I went to gave a decent haircut, but both times I went the barber went on lengthy diatribes about why he didn’t want to get vaccinated, and I didn’t feel like the haircut was good enough to warrant having that conversation over and over again. So, after two visits there, I decided I’d give a new place a try. I found a spot with great reviews – many of them for someone named George – so I trusted the community of online reviewers and booked an evening appointment with George.
I arrived to a no-frills barber shop for their last appointment of the day and took a seat in George’s chair. George was a large, rugged Eastern-European man who had a commanding presence and big, strong hands that make you hope he gives you a scalp massage. When he asked me what I wanted, I showed him the same picture of a previous haircut that my last two barbers had struggled to replicate, and he began to go to work. After some introductory conversation, George remained mostly quiet while he got in the zone. After a couple minutes of watching him work, I relaxed, as it became clear that I was in good (and strong) hands. After two bad barber experiences, I knew that - much like picky blonde girls with porridge - this third option was just right for me.
As the haircut concluded, I complimented George on how excellent of a job he’d done, and the smile on his face seemed to indicate that he knew he nailed it. While he may have a rugged exterior, the G-man seemed to have a soft spot for compliments on his craft, and I was breaking down his walls with a shower of praise.
One of the other barbers was sitting in the chair next to me waiting for the shop to close and seemed to agree that this was a fine looking haircut, as he proclaimed “That looks like a haircut that needs to go on the Instagram”. George, growing more tender and comfortable with me by the minute, seemed to concur. He asked if it was okay to take a picture for Instagram, and I attempted to hide my “I thought you’d never ask” smile and said sure.
As a recipient of a haircut, there’s no greater feeling than being photographed for public display. It indicates that not only did you get a great haircut, but also that the barber obviously doesn’t think you’re ugly, or they wouldn’t feel compelled to share a photo of you to the world. I sat in my chair, beaming with pride, as George and the other barber both started snapping pictures of me from all angles. Once they got their money shot, I tipped the G-man handsomely and hit the road. After several not great haircuts, I knew I finally found the place for me. I’ve never seen the film, but I imagine how I felt in that moment was how Stella felt upon getting her groove back in “How Stella Got Her Groove Back”.
When I returned home, I followed their shop on Instagram and began to eagerly await my debut on their page. The first 24 hours were rough. My brain began to spiral – was I not handsome enough for their page after all? Did the pictures not turn out at all? Did George feel like I made him too vulnerable in our time together? I found myself refreshing their page before bed that night, but to no avail. However, while at work the next day, I happened to open up Instagram (for work reasons, of course) and my jaw dropped.
What the hell is that? Is that me? THAT is the picture that they posted? The one where I look like I’m balding (I’m not) and the bug bites I got on my head on the 4th of July are extremely visible? How could they do this to me? I was devastated, but then noticed that they posted two pictures, and scrolled to see the next one…
HOLY SHIT. George and the other barber managed to take the ugliest picture of me ever taken. The jawline? Totally washed out in this photograph. The skin? Jarringly pale. The excellent haircut? Hardly visible. I quickly went from being eager for them to post a picture of me to hoping that no one in the world ever saw this hideous shot of me.
I contemplated reporting the post solely to get it taken down. I looked at Instagram’s options for reporting things and saw several that applied. “Scam or fraud” and “Bullying or harassment” both seemed to apply, but nothing seemed as on the nose as the excuse of “I just don’t like it”. I neared pressing the button, but then realized how devastating that might be for a small business, particularly one that did give me an excellent haircut.
After gathering my composure, I realized that I learned a valuable lesson that day – if George and the gang want me to appear on their Instagram, from now on they’ve got to let me take the pictures. While the G-Man may give a mean haircut, he can’t take pictures for shit – maybe because of how small the phone feels in his big, strong hands.
All jokes aside, thank you, George, for the excellent haircut experience that I’ve been looking forward to since moving. I look forward to going back in the next couple weeks for another cut and showing them how good I can look when I take the picture.
P.S. Since writing this, I have discovered that sometimes even when I take the picture I still don’t end up looking my best. My apologies to George for everything I said about his picture-taking ability.
