On our way to Ambergris Caye (off of the coast of Belize) a few summers ago, Jay (my father-in-law) and I decided we needed some adventure. We had both worked right up until our day of departure, so we were both looking rather scraggly (and we didn't want to look like bums in all of our vacation photos), so it only made sense for us to find a salon in Miami during our layover. So off we went on the airport tram to the "salon" featured on the directory.
We were giddy from the beginning, because our spouses thought we were total weirdos...and oddly enough we both seem to feed off of that. (And that, my friends, is a dangerous combo.)
As we approach the salon, we are a little taken back by what we see. It is located right in the middle of the terminal. There are no walls surrounding it. In their place is a chainlink fence surrounding about half a dozen salon chairs.
It is straight-up ghetto.
Looks like a prison barber shop.
And the name echoed the same sense of classiness that the decor did. Welcome to Angelo's Hairport.
The shock was all over our faces. But we had both talked so big, neither one of us was willing to back down.
We sit down in the metal chairs that were bolted to the floor. I must have made eye contact with the lady at the counter first, because she nods in my direction and motions for me to follow her to the back of the fenced-in area. She has maroon hair. Maroon. And it is in a pony tail with a scrunchie (via 1991) positioned on the tippy-top of her head. Dare I even mention the perm?
I start telling her about what I want: "I normally have my hair layered a little-not too much--just to make it not so mushroomish. Blah, blah, blah." I want to make sure she doesn't do something to me that my regular stylist will scold me for later.
I assume she knows what I am saying to her.
I assume wrong.
She speaks not one word of english.
In response to my explanation, she uses her hand to make a scissors motion and then shrugs her shoulders.
English translation: "Do you want a haircut?"
I nod yes. I've committed.
Jay is looking at me with panic in his eyes. He knows that we are going to get into some serious trouble for this. And as we exchange fearful glances, my stylist starts butchering my hair. You know how most people pull your hair through their fingers and then chop below their fingers? Her technique was a little different. She cut closer to your head.
Hair is flying through the air. I try to not catch glimpses of myself in the mirror because I know at any minute I will laugh or cry. She isn't remotely precise or focused; it could most closely be described as manic. My manic haircut only lasts about 10 minutes. And the quality reflects it. I stand up upon completion to find myself with a she-mullet.
My "stylist" looks at Jay and nods. (English translation: "You are next".) He emphatically nods "no" and points to the other lady that was cutting hair. There was no way he was going to let her do to him what she did to me.
He takes the other lady's chair and I plant myself in the bolted prison seat again.
Believe it or not, his decision was much worse than mine.
I look up after only a few minutes and bust out laughing. In fact, I have to hide behind a hair magazine. Right before my eyes,my father-in-law is being transformed into Dwight Schrute:
We laugh all the way back to the terminal where our wife/mother-in-law and husband/son are waiting for us--not knowing if they would be amused, horrified or totally t.o.ed.
I think the photo of my mother-in-law's reaction captured their sentiments quite accurately:
You also need to know that this is not the first time my father-in-law made this mistake. Once while in a small-town barber shop in the land-locked state of Arkansas, he sat down and and asked for a "Surfer-cut".
And the name echoed the same sense of classiness that the decor did. Welcome to Angelo's Hairport.
The shock was all over our faces. But we had both talked so big, neither one of us was willing to back down.
We sit down in the metal chairs that were bolted to the floor. I must have made eye contact with the lady at the counter first, because she nods in my direction and motions for me to follow her to the back of the fenced-in area. She has maroon hair. Maroon. And it is in a pony tail with a scrunchie (via 1991) positioned on the tippy-top of her head. Dare I even mention the perm?
I start telling her about what I want: "I normally have my hair layered a little-not too much--just to make it not so mushroomish. Blah, blah, blah." I want to make sure she doesn't do something to me that my regular stylist will scold me for later.
I assume she knows what I am saying to her.
I assume wrong.
She speaks not one word of english.
In response to my explanation, she uses her hand to make a scissors motion and then shrugs her shoulders.
English translation: "Do you want a haircut?"
I nod yes. I've committed.
Jay is looking at me with panic in his eyes. He knows that we are going to get into some serious trouble for this. And as we exchange fearful glances, my stylist starts butchering my hair. You know how most people pull your hair through their fingers and then chop below their fingers? Her technique was a little different. She cut closer to your head.
Hair is flying through the air. I try to not catch glimpses of myself in the mirror because I know at any minute I will laugh or cry. She isn't remotely precise or focused; it could most closely be described as manic. My manic haircut only lasts about 10 minutes. And the quality reflects it. I stand up upon completion to find myself with a she-mullet.
My "stylist" looks at Jay and nods. (English translation: "You are next".) He emphatically nods "no" and points to the other lady that was cutting hair. There was no way he was going to let her do to him what she did to me.
He takes the other lady's chair and I plant myself in the bolted prison seat again.
Believe it or not, his decision was much worse than mine.
I look up after only a few minutes and bust out laughing. In fact, I have to hide behind a hair magazine. Right before my eyes,my father-in-law is being transformed into Dwight Schrute:
We laugh all the way back to the terminal where our wife/mother-in-law and husband/son are waiting for us--not knowing if they would be amused, horrified or totally t.o.ed.
I think the photo of my mother-in-law's reaction captured their sentiments quite accurately:
{ I couldn't stop laughing long enough to open my eyes. }
{ Please note: the girl-mullet as well as the people in the background who were totally disturbed by the scene before them. }
{ We decided this looked more reasonable than the other option. }
You also need to know that this is not the first time my father-in-law made this mistake. Once while in a small-town barber shop in the land-locked state of Arkansas, he sat down and and asked for a "Surfer-cut".
I may have been young and naive, but he should have known better.
2 comments:
I cannot hear this story too many times....it is awesome. I also cannot stop laughing now :)
I'm feeling a little self conscience about my scrunchie collection at this point!
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