Ahh…I let it happen again. It really is my fault. Now I will be walking around deformed and hideous for a solid three weeks, all because I crumble like a wounded giraffe when it comes to being assertive. So, here’s the story:

I hopped out of my car with high hopes that this experience would be different than the last 20, but as I pulled the Pro-Cuts door open and let the Spanish music spill out, I realized that I was doomed like those who had braved the chair before me.

I understand that my first mistake was trusting Pro-Cuts to create an acceptable piece of artwork for my already misshapen head.

The first sign of trouble occurred when I was asked to sign in with a Lucky Bail Bonds pen. I took a seat and instantly I felt the hairs on my head cringe as I was waved over to Gloria’s chair, her three-inch nails glistening under the fluorescent lights.

Of course at this point, there was no turning back. I have committed and now must hold on to every aspect of hope in my body that this senorita won’t make my hair “sayonara,”.

Now comes the tough part. I must clearly and effectively make this woman understand how I want my beautiful black locks cut. As if by routine I blurt out, “One on the sides, faded up and short on the top,” simply trying to create the combed forward but spiked in the front hair style that was popular in the mid-1990s. Regardless, the haircut should be simple.

Because of my previous experiences with Pro-Cuts, I was totally aware of the mistakes that could be made. This ‘cuttress of doom’ may shave off my widow’s peak, completely obliterate my sideburns or worst of all, try to take the hairline on the back of my head and run it up my neck so far that a stubbly, ‘no man’s land’ between my ears could be created as in times past.

The fear sparked the struggle of a lifetime within my brain. Should I politely remind her not to cut into my hairline or keep quiet and assume that this ‘stylist’ is a professional as her company would have me to believe? I glanced over at her beautician’s license, so proudly displayed on her mirror within a plastic magnet with her Glamour Shot attached, and as her razor came closer, the hopeful, non-confrontational, optimistic side within me won out and I let her cut without reminder.

As she finished the haircut, she pulled out a mirror for me to take a look, and I realized the worst had happened. Not only was my forehead bare with my widow’s peak gone, but my hairline now rested straight across the back of my head between my ears, leaving me with the worst haircut in history – even surpassing the caveman hairstyles of the Mesozoic era.

As always, I told Gloria it looked fine, paid for the butcher’s work (including a tip); and smiled as I walked out the door knowing that I would return yet again to my haircut hell. After losing the battle with my assertive side for the 100th time, I came to this conclusion: I was the one who couldn’t cut it.

About the writer:

Matt Villanueva is junior advertising major. He can be reached at [email protected]