Dearest SuperCunt Stylist;
You don’t know me. Not personally at least. We shared 15 minutes of mostly awkward time together and exchanged a few forced words that served to slay the dragon-sized silence that filled the space between us. But don’t you worry because I’m confident that by the end of this letter you will know me well. As a matter of fact, SuperCunt? We may even come out of this shitstorm as BFF. That or…. you’ll wish you would’ve never incompetently raised your
scissors hair-exterminators to my head. Bitch.
But let’s take this slow SuperCunt. Let’s not get so barbaric (if you were a barber that would have been punbelievable).
Yes, I know. I know. That’s what Susan was saying earlier: “It’s a new year. Is this how you intend to approach 2018? With an incessantly bitchy letter to a random stranger who’s out there struggling to make a living in this cold, unfair world to maybe feed her maybe hungry children who were maybe abandoned by their father?” Well the answer is yes. Yes, Susan. Yes, SuperCunt. YES, world. FUCK YES, almighty energies of the universe.
And SuperCunt? (I crack myself up LOL) You’ll have to excuse my borderline rude-ish name-calling, but I don’t know your name so I simply gathered the facts and pieced them together using what little common sense I have:
1- you’re a hair stylist
2- who happens to work at a nearby SuperCuts and
3- you’re unequivocally- a dumb cunt.
And 1+1=2 right?! And for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction right? And like, what goes up must come down, isn’t that right? So clearly….the answer is SuperCunt. Listen girl, I don’t make the rules nor do I have the power to bend the laws of nature. I’m just here for the rant.
Ok. I feel like I’m losing you here, S.C. (can I just call you S.C. for short? I’m trying to save myself on the word count here) so let’s just get right to the shady business of the events which led up to the baffling, mind-fucked moment where I’m facing my reflection in my vanity mirror, in a state of panicky rage, with a pair of paper-cutting scissors in one hand, and a bunch of my own fucking hair…. in the other.
But in order to get to that moment there are a few things you need to know about the person that I am. You see, S.C. I’m a woman who knows what she wants, when she wants it. And by this I mean, that I’m an impulsive sack of bad-decision-making who doesn’t give a shit about consequences nor overdrawn bank accounts. If I want it- it’s officially a need. A must. “NO” is gibberish in my life. Do you remember Veruca from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory: “GIVE IT TO ME NOOWWWW”? Yea. She’s my spirit fictional-character. Bratty little shit…but man is she a boss or what?! Oh dear, I’m losing you again. Ok. So with the holidays having been near and with the ends of my hair feeling like scare-crow pubes (ok I’ll admit that was excessive), I wanted a fresh trim, like PRONTO.
Which brings us to the other thing about me: I loathe hair salons with a passion so intense that I cannot put the loathe-passion into words that would do it justice. Literally, I have to hit rock-bottom on the quality-of-my-hair-spectrum in order for me to walk into a dreaded fucking salon. So obviously, I don’t have a “hair lady” whom I trust and love and share my life stories with. I have zero interest in those kinds of routine forced interactions. I also don’t want a bunch of random bitches gossiping around me and making random eye contact with me in oversized mirrors while I look like a sad, stray wet dog in a fucking black cape. Which is why I literally go to the least popular, emptiest, random places I can find. For fuck’s sake it’s just my ends. I figure ANY licensed hair stylist is capable of decently trimming my ends.
And so I ended up at SuperCuts- a more commercialized chain that’s been around forever but that no one ever goes to (how is this place even still around?!)
I can’t possibly go wrong, I said to myself. It will be fine, I said to myself. This has to happen, now… I said to myself. I mean I didn’t want anything fancy or complex. I didn’t ask for layers. Or a bob. “JUST AN INCH OR TWO OFF THE ENDS TO GET RID OF THE BAD STUFF. Don’t even wash it or blow dry it. Just spray it with some water and cut it. I’ll dry it at home. THIS HAIR IS DEPRESSING ME and I have to get home to cook dinner.”
That’s what I said to you, S.C. Those were the simple demands of a simple mom needing a quick, simple change so that she can deal with the rest of her complicated as fuck life.
But that was just too difficult for you wasn’t it S.C.?
Considering that I got home and discovered a large chunk of hair that was somehow left completely uncut and hanging down to my shoulders. How I didn’t notice it before you ask?! Well you kind of just left my hair to air dry and curl up and so it all blended the fuck in! Not to mention, you chopped the rest of my hair way shorter than what “just the tips” means.
The too-short stuff I can deal with. It happens. It will grow. What fucking tipped me over the edge was the hair-tail you left on my head which I had zero choice but to eyeball and chop off my damn self because of course, you were already all closed up and of course, I had things to do the next morning. Like- go to work.
So there I stood. Facing my reflection with a random ass pair of purple scissors that had never touched hair before, ready to fuck my hair up even further. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t blink. I just did it.
And I’m sure no one can tell.
BUT I KNOW, SUPERCUNT. And I just wanted to say: fuck you. Do you know how long it takes my sorry ass hair to grow out?!
I hope your next client gives you head-lice. The super gigantic evolutionary kind. You deserve them all. Also- no wonder you’re probably single and struggling. You’re a total idiot.