America – will you ever be able to cut it?

Posted on Nov 8, 2015 by headinablender

OK, here’s an experience that a) happened about an hour ago, and b) I was not expecting.

Let’s start with some exposition…

Today I have friends coming into Vegas from the UK and, amongst my girly squeals of delight because they’re bringing Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate with them, I thought I should look at least half presentable for when we see them. After all, they’re the first visitors we’ve had since we moved to Vegas almost three months ago.

I had a few things on my ‘to do’ list this morning to prepare for their arrival. These included: Go to the gym, get petrol (gas), wash the car and get a haircut.

So I went to the gym, filled the tank (of my car; I don’t actually drive a tank…although if I did, my last post would’ve been a little less ‘ranty’ and a lot more ‘splatty’), took the car through a car wash (and vacuumed it out with the FREE vacuum cleaners they provided. Yeah I’m looking at you, Britain) and headed to the barber shop to get the ol’ noggin [1] sorted out.

I found a place called ‘Great Clips’ which, to be honest, I thought may have been a film editing company. I still wasn’t sure until I got close to the front door.

I entered and was immediately greeted by pretty much all the stylists. You’ve got to love America for that.

Now for some more exposition…

In an English barber shop you walk in, maybe nod and say hi to one or two of the stylists (if they look up) and take a seat. When one of the stylists has finished with a customer, they come over to the sitting area and say ‘who’s next?’. At this point there are slightly confused and awkward looks amongst guys pointing at each other and saying “I think it was him” because no-one is entirely sure who was next. That said, if someone, who came in after you, tries to jump in front they are quickly and politely stabbed to death with the closest scissors available.

Back to the story.

So I smile and say hi back to the stylists and turn around to take a seat. At this point a lady came over to the desk and said “Hi, have you been here before?”

“No” I said, a little unsure why that mattered.

“Ok” she replied in a voice coated in vanilla syrup, “that’s fine, if you would like to fill this in”.

Note that this wasn’t a question. She was telling me to fill in a slip of paper she’d slid across the counter with a pen.

This slip asked for the following information: Name, telephone number, address, zip code, Whether I was an Adult, Child or Senior (which is still an adult, isn’t it?) and the ages of my children.

I filled in my name and my zip code and then stopped. What was I doing? What is this? I’m here for a haircut, aren’t I? Is this so they can send me videos of my hair being cut, hence the name ‘Great Clips’?

The woman came back with her sugary smile and, me being me, I had to ask.

Me – “Sorry, I’m a bit confused here, why am I filling in all this information? I only need a haircut. I’m not unwittingly signing up for a credit card or something am I?”.

Her – “Ha ha, no it’s so we can send you coupons in the future, and the telephone number is so we can bring up your profile”.

Me – “My profile?”

Her – “Yes. It’s so we have a record of how you like to have your hair styled and if you decide to use one of the many other Great Clips in the city they will be able to bring up your details too”.

Me – “Oh, so you’re a chain? Right, gotcha.”

I said this in a tone that said “oh, right, well that makes sense then, of COURSE you can have all my personal and private details so that you’re better equipped to cut the hairs on my head!”….but more sincere than you’ve probably just read it.

After all, I didn’t want to appear defensive, despite this being a weird fucking practice for a haircut

She took the completed slip from me, still smiling, and started entering my details on her computer.

I took a seat and watched her type far more than the information I’d entered on the slip. About 15 seconds went by and she said “OK, ready?”.

What was the point in suggesting I take a seat?

Anyway, I followed smiling Susan (or whatever her name was) to her chair and took a seat.

She smiled at me (or at least I think it was a new smile, it’s possible it was the same smile she’d been wearing since I arrived) and asked me how i’d like my hair. I couldn’t help but grin because the next time they’ll probably ask for my telephone number so they can enter it into a computer and then look up the information I’d imparted to her in the last 5 seconds.

Grade two back and sides, and a bit shorter and choppier on top.

No technology, no slips of paper. Just common sense.

She then put a strip of white tissue paper around my neck before fastening the usual black cape over it.

In fact, I looked like this.

There was suddenly an elephant in the room.

Me – “I look like a priest”

Her – “What?”

Me – “I said, I look like a priest”

She stopped, looked at me in the mirror and then laughed.

Her – “Ha ha ha, yes I suppose you do!”

Seriously, you’ve NEVER made that connection? Has no-one EVER made that connection before?

I’m not religious man (let alone a priest), but I was praying her hair cutting skills were better than, well, everything else about her so far.

And then we were off.

What followed was 15 minutes of company encouraged smalltalk, including (but not limited to): “How’s your day going today?”, :How long have you been in the US?” (at least she didn’t think I was fucking Australian), “So what do you do?” and my personal favourite “I would love to visit England but I haven’t had the chance yet”.

No shit? Really? Wow.

Also, I’ve noticed that over here the stylists seem scared to touch your head, either with their hands or the clippers. Is it just me? Do I have a greasy or gross head? When I’ve had my hair cut in the past the stylist would actually press the clippers against my head, like you’re supposed to. Here I barely felt them.

My ‘grade two back and sides’ is more like a range of grades from two to four.

Are they worried I’ll sue for physical abuse? Will I have to stand up in court and show a jury ‘where on the teddy bear’ the stylist touched me?

Probably.

(rolls eyes)

Anyway, after we were finally done and she’d cut my hair from a distance of eight feet, my substandard haircut and I stood up, paid (with tip….which I still don’t really know the etiquette for) and left.

On the drive home I couldn’t help but wonder, what would happen if I wanted to change up my hair style in the future? Would I be allowed to? If I didn’t say anything, would they just go ahead and cut it like last time?

Also, do they store every different style I have in their computer forever?

Surely none of this is as efficient or accurate as asking the customer when they’re IN THE FUCKING CHAIR?

I can’t help but worry that my profile might get mixed up with a 65 year old lady with a blue rinse and a double crown; that’ll make for an interesting look!

So there you have it. The haircut she’s given me is now what I can now expect at ‘one of the many other Great Clips in the city’ from now on.

After all, it’s on my profile now.

Yay.

[1] Slang for head. Not to be mistaken with the words ‘nosh off'[2] or ‘blozza'[3]

[2] Slang for blow job

[3] See [2]

Getting under my skin

Posted on Oct 10, 2014 by headinablender

Following a tattoo session earlier in the week I’ve been wearing Bepanthen (nappy rash cream) and cling film on my arm for the last few days.

Not the most comfortable of attire.

Well, today is Friday which means the dress code policy at work is relaxed, so I’m in a t-shirt.

As a result, people have noticed my arm is trussed up in cling film. This has led to an exercise in stating the bleeding obvious.

“Your arm is in cling film.”

“You’ve had another tattoo.”

No shit.

But in all honesty, I’m not being fair. Of course I’m aware my arm resembles a beef joint in the fridge; it’s just a typical way for them to start a conversation about it; one I can’t wait to have, over and over again.

The conversation always starts with:

“What have you had done? Can I see it?”

Sure, no problem. Let me cut away the strategically placed tape and peel off all the cling film that took ages to put on this morning with one arm so you can see it and say “Oh, right. Cool”.

Maybe I should reply with “You’re wearing make-up. Can I see what you look like underneath?”

Maybe not.

I attempt to show them through the layers of cling film which looks like a black and grey Jackson Pollock and I still get the “Oh, right. Cool”, so that’s good. Then the conversation moves on to include one or more of the following:

“What does it / they mean?”

Unfortunately this is unavoidable. After all, I have two full sleeves on display. To me, tattoos are not about how they look or because it’s ‘cool’, they’re very personal and they all have meanings no matter how small. I choose my tattoos carefully because I’m going to have them for a very long time.

So am I going to disclose everything to just anyone? No. I have my life on my sleeve, not my heart.

If it’s a close friend or a family member, I’ll talk them through every line and every detail, but to everyone else I tend to glaze over the question with “Oh all sorts of things”.

This is because I know that, deep down, they’re keen to move onto the next question.

“Did it hurt?”

No, it was like being licked by kittens.

This question is not to be confused with “Do they hurt?”, which is a dead giveaway of a person who doesn’t have tattoos. These ink virgins then follow up with:

“I don’t like needles.”, and/or “I couldn’t have a tattoo.”.

Well, I don’t like needles either. It’s not the same thing. Having a tattoo feels similar to a hot scratch across the skin whereas a needle feels like you’re being punctured right to your very soul.

(shudder)

And, why couldn’t you have a tattoo? Of course you can. Just sit in a chair and get one.

I believe you meant to say you WOULDN’T have a tattoo, which is different. I’m assuming this is because you fear the pain, or is it because you simply don’t like or agree with them? For your sake I hope it’s the former because, as you may have noticed, I have a few tattoos and you’ll likely offend me (despite the fact I look like I bite the heads off kittens to you).

Then comes the classic “What about when you’re 70 years old?”

What about it? When I’m 70 years old I’m going to:

Be awesome
Not give a shit about how I look.
Be surrounded by a generation of other 70 year olds also covered in tattoos.

Don’t base your judgement on the elder generation of today with their tweed jackets and flat caps. When I’m 70 I will be part of a generation of old farts covered in tattoos and all sorts of piercings, punctures, modifications and randomly positioned flesh holes. If anything it’ll be YOU who will stand out.

“Look dad, that old man over there is a funny pink colour!”

“That’s called skin, son”

Having said all this, a majority of the time I get drawn into a conversation about the tattoo(s) they’re planning to have.

With women it’s usually a flower, or writing, or a butterfly, or their name located either on the wrist, hip, lower back (*cough* tramp stamp *cough*), foot or behind their shoulder.

Oh, and stars. There’s always room for stars.

With guys it’s ALWAYS the upper arm and usually over the shoulder. They demonstrate what they mean by running their hand along their upper arm and over their shoulder as they describe it to me, just in case I don’t understand what the upper arm and over the shoulder means, despite BOTH of my sleeves covering my entire arm and going over my shoulder.

On top of this it’s usually tribal, or a dragon, or stars (again), or a Koi fish with Japanese waves, lotus flowers, cherry blossom and clouds. Fucking clouds. Fucking mashed potato clouds.

I once saw a guy on the tube with a whole sleeve made up of stars and fucking clouds.

Why? Was he a meteorologist?

I doubt it.

Even if he was, at least choose something a little more imaginative like rain and meteors and comets and hurricanes and tidal waves.

That would be awesome!

Nope, “clouds and stars please”.

The famous tattooist Kat Von D has this quote on the sleeve of her first book:

“I am a canvas of my experiences, my story is etched in lines and shading, and you can read it on my arms, my legs, my shoulders, and my stomach.”

Or, if you’re just eager to get a sleeve to look cool, have clouds and stars.

What a waste of your body’s real estate.

In addition to all this, I sometimes get asked advice on designs and ideas. I’m happy to do this, but I usually find that as soon I start showing them where to look online for great ideas and inspiration, they suddenly know better and disagree with and/or reject everything I suggest.

Not enough stars maybe?

Sometimes they insist on showing me the online portfolio of the tattooist they’ve chosen.

Sometimes these tattooists look like they use an Etch-A-Sketch.

But they seem excited, so I play along. I then show them the portfolio of my tattooist in the hope they’ll see the difference between them. They don’t.

In fact, they often suggest I try their tattooist instead; a tattooist they haven’t even used themselves rather than the amazing artist I’ve been going to for 10 years.

Yeah, that’ll happen.

After all said and done, tattoos aren’t for everyone.

The one thing that some people (especially tattoo virgins) can’t comprehend is how much it costs to get a tattoo. These are the people that will have no problem buying an expensive LED 1080p 3D Smart TV which may last them 5 years or so. My tattoos will be with me forever.

THAT’S value for money.

And when I’m asked “Don’t you ever regret having them?”, I look the person in the eye and say:

“When you die you can’t take your money, your house, your TV, your car or any of your things with you; someone else gets all of that. My tattoos are mine. I’m taking those and my memories with me.”

Or…

“Fuck off”

Depends on my mood.