The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Friday, March 04, 2005
A Boy's Not Supposed To Have Hair Like A Girl
Furry and follicled friends,
Well, I’ve finally done it. Having already lost my sideburns-cosmic due to pre-job-interview-grooming and having little left to lose, last night I shaved my head. It was really just the result of weeks of pent-up annoyance over getting a less-than-adequate haircut. You see, I’d started visiting a new barber recently, having not gotten any proper haircuts at all in the past few years. Perhaps, as I’ve learned, keeping Playboy magazines in the waiting area of the barbershop isn’t the best criteria for choosing a new barber.
I’d chosen a Russian lady for my new barber for no reason other than her barbershop was close by and easy to get to. The first haircut wasn’t the greatest, and she pretty much did whatever she wanted when she cut it, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt, as it was her first time cutting my most difficult hair, and I’d been trying something new. That was election day, a bad day overall, a day in which I received a bad haircut, participated in the Presidential election only to find my country lost to me, and spent most of the day traveling across the bay to a far-away place, to attend a job interview for a job I didn’t get. Yes, a shite day indeed.
However, I recently returned to the confines of Alla’s Barbershop, about a month ago, after a day spent with the Lusty Lascivian at the zoo. The Lascivian was most insistent upon trekking into the children’s section of the zoo, and once there, was made most complacent to spend a good deal of time in the petting zoo. There was something unseemly about my friend’s over-enthusiasm towards the petting zoo, something just a bit unsettling about my pal’s behavior. After watching goats lock horns in front of us, and after I’d paid my respects to the great American turkey (Benjamin Franklin’s bird of choice), I pulled out my great-granddaddy’s camera and started taking several shots of my partner-in-zoology; one never knows when blackmail may be necessary.
For my second trip to see the barber, I was prepared. I’d brought a photograph of myself with the haircut I desired, so not only would the barber know exactly what to give me this time, she simultaneously wouldn’t be able to give me excuses about how my hair was too curly for this particular haircut. I had proof this time, and it was in the picture. I should have known she’d find a way to fuck it up.
So I sat in the chair and watched as she clipped away at my hair, while she danced along to the sound of the Russian pop music she’d been playing from a small boom-box, and I made small talk. In the large mirrors I could see Playboy magazines splayed all over the barbershop. As I walked out of the shop, after paying and tipping the barber, my hair didn’t look bad. It certainly didn’t look great, I was by no means impressed… parts were asymmetrical and seemed to make my head look strangely shaped, but I figured all I needed was a good washing. Surely, I thought, it only looked funny because the hair sprouting from my many cowlicks needed time to adjust.
By the next day I realized I’d been screwed.
I woke up with my hair presented in a most atrocious manner. This gave me no worry; I expected my hair not to be at its best after a full night’s rest. So I ate, spent an hour running, and showered, giving my hair a good shampooing in the process. The haircut still sucked. It sucked worse. I knew not how my barber managed to keep her barbershop in business with a consistent stream of customers, but by that point I had to assume that her clientele all generally requested crew-cuts, and I noted that I’d never seen a single female client in her shop. Perhaps the Playboy magazines were a form of bribery, or perhaps, as the great magicians and illusionists will tell you, a masterful trick in the art of misdirection. You know the drill...
“Nothing up my sleeve... now you see my shears... watch as they cut your hair, and what’s this?! TITS!!!”
Of course I made do with the haircut I’d been given. I managed to limit the awkwardness of the haircut with a combination of special combing techniques, and the wearing of a special brain-wave helmet which added a foot or two to my height. Within a week or two I’d noticed my hair standing on end (as it tends to do often, as I have a rare condition of the scalp referred to as Christopherwalkenitus) and observed the rather bizarre lengths to which the barber had cut my hair. She’d made my hair longer and taller as it reached the rear of my head, which was a big part of why my hair looked as strange as it did. I was drunk as I looked angrily in the mirror, and I’d never attended a single minute of Barber College, yet even I knew better than this. So I grabbed my shears and chopped off the longest part of the hair and lord help me, IT LOOKED BETTER! Most of the asymmetry had disappeared with just a few drunken, untrained snips of the scissors. I realized at this point that if I could make better judgment calls where hair is concerned when drunk than my barber could sober (assuming she wasn’t secretly swigging nips of vodka), it was time for a new barber.
I lasted another week or two, but eventually just could take no more. Even with the corrections I’d made, the haircut was still unsalvageable. The front was far too long and cut unevenly, there was too much hair on top of my head still, and the sides of my head didn’t look remotely similar. Quite frankly, I was sick of having to put as much effort as I did into such a simple haircut. The barber had failed in all-new ways and I decided that this particular head of hair was unsalvageable. I grabbed my shears and shaved my hair down to a nice, respectable length. Ah, who knew symmetry could be such bliss?
Nearly bald isn’t such a bad look for me, as I’d forgotten. In fact, it looks considerably better now than it did before: my head has lost a lot of its pear-shaped qualities as I’ve lost a bit of weight. Still, I do enjoy having a length of hair from time to time, which is why I’ve started taking to shaving Bobo the Virgin Chimp’s back as part of my project to create a magnificent new wig for when I attend parties. I am, after all, a dandy fellow.
Sure, the toupee smells a bit funny when I’m not masked in a half-gallon of Old Spice aftershave, and in some parts of the hairpiece the banana was so mashed into the fur that I had to cut it out, but you should see the looks on the girls’ faces when I enter the room.
“Oooh!” they say, “who’s the dashing stud with the mane the color of a tall, dark monolith and the thick, bushy sideburns?”
Or sometimes they say, “Wow! Look at the dreamboat with the cattle egret pecking around on his finely-trimmed pageboy coiffure? -sniff sniff- …Say, do they make Herbal Essences in banana flavor?”
That’s right baby, CHICK MAGNET!
Back to the matter of haircuts, I’ve come to the conclusion, based on the available evidence, that never must my hair be cut by a woman of Russian heritage. No good can come of it! You see, there was only one other time I had a haircut so bad that it was an atrocity before man and god, worthy of having the maker of such a “styling” brought up on charges before an international court of war crimes. This defiler of do’s, this barbarian of barbery too was of Russian heritage (and she’d never let you forget it).
It’s a funny story really. My ex-girlfriend was once given the rare privilege of being allowed to cut the thick and well-groomed hair of the Virgin Prince! At this time she was well into her second 22 ounce can of Steel Reserve (I’d learned the hard way that very weekend NEVER to try and separate her from alcohol) but I trusted her as she’d made consistent claims of her great alcohol tolerance, and was working to convince me of her competence with a pair of shears, and also, I really just needed a haircut.
Oh what shenanigans were had!
She lopped off hair here and there, and when it came time to do the back of my head, she decided my hairline should end halfway up the back of my head. She dismissed the whole thing with a “whoops” and a laugh, and I spent the rest of the weekend with a bad haircut and a cold and grumpy girlfriend. Sunday night she furiously pawed at me while we were in the backseat of our friends’ car (with our friends still up front) and I tried, desperately, to swat her hands away, reaching as they were for my genitalia. I swatted and swatted, but her hands kept coming, and she had a look in her eye. Whatever had been causing her to treat me so coldly the whole weekend had clearly dissipated from her mind, and sometime between the night and the morning she had taken advantage of my innocent mind and molested my pure, yet virile, body.
The next morning, swiftly upon waking, she informed me that she no longer wished to maintain a relationship with me. Oh, how I cried and cried, but I think that deep down, she knew she’d made a pretty good joke. See, she’d brilliantly deceived me into thinking all was well the night before while she went about procuring from me what she’d been after; certainly the joke was on me the next morning when she told me it was all over! Like a grand April fool’s joke gone well, I was left with egg on my face, and to further add to the hilarity, even after she’d left and I’d returned to work the next day, I was still stuck with the crappy haircut as a stinging reminder. Even after I shaved down my hair to nearly nothing, the horrors she’d wreaked upon my scalp were still visible for several weeks afterward (which my coworkers consistently enjoyed pointing out). So brilliant was this plot that she’d gotten me twice! Good show!
Pussy-hound indeed!
To sum all this up, I’ve decided that in the future, it might be best if I never accept a haircut from a female of Russian heritage ever again. Whether it’s the product of some secret conspiracy of Eastern European females, or perhaps merely some sort of genetic predisposition towards incompetence with edged instruments, I’ve learned my lesson. Next time I’m going to the Chinese barbershop.
In other news, I’ve figured out why my website hits dropped off towards the end of February. Google dropped me from their search again! That means along with my buddies, Caza, Mikey, etc. We’ve all been pulled from the Google listings. Of course, I have no knowledge why, I’ve been steadily listed for more than a year now, though I suspect I may have ruffled some feathers with my posts on Emeril several months back. Never fear, I’m still in Yahoo, and I suspect I’ll be able to straighten out all this nonsense with the vile vulgarians at Google fairly soon.
Well I’m off. My ape needs a shawl to spare him from the shivers, and as for myself, I’m off to dream of Mandy Moore and Lindsay Lohan in whipped cream-covered wrestling matches. Good day!
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Well, I’ve finally done it. Having already lost my sideburns-cosmic due to pre-job-interview-grooming and having little left to lose, last night I shaved my head. It was really just the result of weeks of pent-up annoyance over getting a less-than-adequate haircut. You see, I’d started visiting a new barber recently, having not gotten any proper haircuts at all in the past few years. Perhaps, as I’ve learned, keeping Playboy magazines in the waiting area of the barbershop isn’t the best criteria for choosing a new barber.
I’d chosen a Russian lady for my new barber for no reason other than her barbershop was close by and easy to get to. The first haircut wasn’t the greatest, and she pretty much did whatever she wanted when she cut it, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt, as it was her first time cutting my most difficult hair, and I’d been trying something new. That was election day, a bad day overall, a day in which I received a bad haircut, participated in the Presidential election only to find my country lost to me, and spent most of the day traveling across the bay to a far-away place, to attend a job interview for a job I didn’t get. Yes, a shite day indeed.
However, I recently returned to the confines of Alla’s Barbershop, about a month ago, after a day spent with the Lusty Lascivian at the zoo. The Lascivian was most insistent upon trekking into the children’s section of the zoo, and once there, was made most complacent to spend a good deal of time in the petting zoo. There was something unseemly about my friend’s over-enthusiasm towards the petting zoo, something just a bit unsettling about my pal’s behavior. After watching goats lock horns in front of us, and after I’d paid my respects to the great American turkey (Benjamin Franklin’s bird of choice), I pulled out my great-granddaddy’s camera and started taking several shots of my partner-in-zoology; one never knows when blackmail may be necessary.
For my second trip to see the barber, I was prepared. I’d brought a photograph of myself with the haircut I desired, so not only would the barber know exactly what to give me this time, she simultaneously wouldn’t be able to give me excuses about how my hair was too curly for this particular haircut. I had proof this time, and it was in the picture. I should have known she’d find a way to fuck it up.
So I sat in the chair and watched as she clipped away at my hair, while she danced along to the sound of the Russian pop music she’d been playing from a small boom-box, and I made small talk. In the large mirrors I could see Playboy magazines splayed all over the barbershop. As I walked out of the shop, after paying and tipping the barber, my hair didn’t look bad. It certainly didn’t look great, I was by no means impressed… parts were asymmetrical and seemed to make my head look strangely shaped, but I figured all I needed was a good washing. Surely, I thought, it only looked funny because the hair sprouting from my many cowlicks needed time to adjust.
By the next day I realized I’d been screwed.
I woke up with my hair presented in a most atrocious manner. This gave me no worry; I expected my hair not to be at its best after a full night’s rest. So I ate, spent an hour running, and showered, giving my hair a good shampooing in the process. The haircut still sucked. It sucked worse. I knew not how my barber managed to keep her barbershop in business with a consistent stream of customers, but by that point I had to assume that her clientele all generally requested crew-cuts, and I noted that I’d never seen a single female client in her shop. Perhaps the Playboy magazines were a form of bribery, or perhaps, as the great magicians and illusionists will tell you, a masterful trick in the art of misdirection. You know the drill...
“Nothing up my sleeve... now you see my shears... watch as they cut your hair, and what’s this?! TITS!!!”
Of course I made do with the haircut I’d been given. I managed to limit the awkwardness of the haircut with a combination of special combing techniques, and the wearing of a special brain-wave helmet which added a foot or two to my height. Within a week or two I’d noticed my hair standing on end (as it tends to do often, as I have a rare condition of the scalp referred to as Christopherwalkenitus) and observed the rather bizarre lengths to which the barber had cut my hair. She’d made my hair longer and taller as it reached the rear of my head, which was a big part of why my hair looked as strange as it did. I was drunk as I looked angrily in the mirror, and I’d never attended a single minute of Barber College, yet even I knew better than this. So I grabbed my shears and chopped off the longest part of the hair and lord help me, IT LOOKED BETTER! Most of the asymmetry had disappeared with just a few drunken, untrained snips of the scissors. I realized at this point that if I could make better judgment calls where hair is concerned when drunk than my barber could sober (assuming she wasn’t secretly swigging nips of vodka), it was time for a new barber.
I lasted another week or two, but eventually just could take no more. Even with the corrections I’d made, the haircut was still unsalvageable. The front was far too long and cut unevenly, there was too much hair on top of my head still, and the sides of my head didn’t look remotely similar. Quite frankly, I was sick of having to put as much effort as I did into such a simple haircut. The barber had failed in all-new ways and I decided that this particular head of hair was unsalvageable. I grabbed my shears and shaved my hair down to a nice, respectable length. Ah, who knew symmetry could be such bliss?
Nearly bald isn’t such a bad look for me, as I’d forgotten. In fact, it looks considerably better now than it did before: my head has lost a lot of its pear-shaped qualities as I’ve lost a bit of weight. Still, I do enjoy having a length of hair from time to time, which is why I’ve started taking to shaving Bobo the Virgin Chimp’s back as part of my project to create a magnificent new wig for when I attend parties. I am, after all, a dandy fellow.
Sure, the toupee smells a bit funny when I’m not masked in a half-gallon of Old Spice aftershave, and in some parts of the hairpiece the banana was so mashed into the fur that I had to cut it out, but you should see the looks on the girls’ faces when I enter the room.
“Oooh!” they say, “who’s the dashing stud with the mane the color of a tall, dark monolith and the thick, bushy sideburns?”
Or sometimes they say, “Wow! Look at the dreamboat with the cattle egret pecking around on his finely-trimmed pageboy coiffure? -sniff sniff- …Say, do they make Herbal Essences in banana flavor?”
That’s right baby, CHICK MAGNET!
Back to the matter of haircuts, I’ve come to the conclusion, based on the available evidence, that never must my hair be cut by a woman of Russian heritage. No good can come of it! You see, there was only one other time I had a haircut so bad that it was an atrocity before man and god, worthy of having the maker of such a “styling” brought up on charges before an international court of war crimes. This defiler of do’s, this barbarian of barbery too was of Russian heritage (and she’d never let you forget it).
It’s a funny story really. My ex-girlfriend was once given the rare privilege of being allowed to cut the thick and well-groomed hair of the Virgin Prince! At this time she was well into her second 22 ounce can of Steel Reserve (I’d learned the hard way that very weekend NEVER to try and separate her from alcohol) but I trusted her as she’d made consistent claims of her great alcohol tolerance, and was working to convince me of her competence with a pair of shears, and also, I really just needed a haircut.
Oh what shenanigans were had!
She lopped off hair here and there, and when it came time to do the back of my head, she decided my hairline should end halfway up the back of my head. She dismissed the whole thing with a “whoops” and a laugh, and I spent the rest of the weekend with a bad haircut and a cold and grumpy girlfriend. Sunday night she furiously pawed at me while we were in the backseat of our friends’ car (with our friends still up front) and I tried, desperately, to swat her hands away, reaching as they were for my genitalia. I swatted and swatted, but her hands kept coming, and she had a look in her eye. Whatever had been causing her to treat me so coldly the whole weekend had clearly dissipated from her mind, and sometime between the night and the morning she had taken advantage of my innocent mind and molested my pure, yet virile, body.
The next morning, swiftly upon waking, she informed me that she no longer wished to maintain a relationship with me. Oh, how I cried and cried, but I think that deep down, she knew she’d made a pretty good joke. See, she’d brilliantly deceived me into thinking all was well the night before while she went about procuring from me what she’d been after; certainly the joke was on me the next morning when she told me it was all over! Like a grand April fool’s joke gone well, I was left with egg on my face, and to further add to the hilarity, even after she’d left and I’d returned to work the next day, I was still stuck with the crappy haircut as a stinging reminder. Even after I shaved down my hair to nearly nothing, the horrors she’d wreaked upon my scalp were still visible for several weeks afterward (which my coworkers consistently enjoyed pointing out). So brilliant was this plot that she’d gotten me twice! Good show!
Pussy-hound indeed!
To sum all this up, I’ve decided that in the future, it might be best if I never accept a haircut from a female of Russian heritage ever again. Whether it’s the product of some secret conspiracy of Eastern European females, or perhaps merely some sort of genetic predisposition towards incompetence with edged instruments, I’ve learned my lesson. Next time I’m going to the Chinese barbershop.
In other news, I’ve figured out why my website hits dropped off towards the end of February. Google dropped me from their search again! That means along with my buddies, Caza, Mikey, etc. We’ve all been pulled from the Google listings. Of course, I have no knowledge why, I’ve been steadily listed for more than a year now, though I suspect I may have ruffled some feathers with my posts on Emeril several months back. Never fear, I’m still in Yahoo, and I suspect I’ll be able to straighten out all this nonsense with the vile vulgarians at Google fairly soon.
Well I’m off. My ape needs a shawl to spare him from the shivers, and as for myself, I’m off to dream of Mandy Moore and Lindsay Lohan in whipped cream-covered wrestling matches. Good day!
The Virgin Prince
