The Worst Haircut Of My Life

A traumatic run-in with the barber on East 3rd street

July 13th, 2017
Alphabet City— New York, NY

I woke up with a throbbing headache.

For once it wasn’t just a hangover. It was also because my hair had grown so long that when I rolled out of bed it bunched up on top of my head to make me look like Marge Simpson. I was in desperate need of a haircut.

I ambled down to the new barber that had opened a block from my apartment. I popped my head in the door and a tall bespectacled gentleman looked up from the hair he was intensely shearing. “Yes, what?” He asked. “Can I make an appointment?” I replied, apologetically. He replied in his thick, Eastern European accent, “Go. Next door. He halp you.”

I walked out the door, turned left, and found another glass door with an identical logo on it. I peered into the window to see another tall gentleman, but this one was far different.

For starters, he had very little hair. It had all receded to a small, elite squadron of scalp-pubes at the very back of his head. He wore a tight black t-shirt that didn’t co…