Le Coiffure Noir – We Meet Again!

I got another haircut yesterday. And again, I am highly unsatisfied with the result. I shaved my beard because I was beginning to chew on it when I ate because it kept creeping in my mouth. On New Years Eve, I met up with some friends for a little party to welcome the New Year. One of my French friends was surprised to see how long my hair was. She said I looked like a terrorist because my beard was so long. Apparently, it was time to cut it.  So I shaved my beard a few days ago. Everyone commented about my newfound “youth” and my sudden “childish” appearance. My hair remained a mess, and I felt that a clean-shaven face coupled with my wild hair made for a terrible mashup.

I decided to get another haircut. This time, I chose the coiffure closest to my place; it looked clean and well kept. Soon after I sat in the chair, I realized the fallacy in my logic; just because the shop looks clean doesn’t mean the guy can cut. And the result was just as bad, if not worse than my first experience. His techniques were different; he used a straight, handheld razor blade to cut my hairline. But the results were pretty much the same. He pushed back my hairline and in essence, “redefined” it, much to my chagrin. It’s terrible. I look like batman. I withheld judgment on these Parisian barbers before, but now, I’m letting loose. They can’t cut hair, or at least mine. They’re just not that skilled. Back home, I had a guy, in Columbus, who cut my hair just right. He’s been my barber for the past four years, and as soon as I get home, as soon as I can, I’m going all the way to Columbus for a haircut.

My self-esteem is tied to my appearance just as much as it is for anyone else. Right now, I’m in a bit of a funk, because I hate my haircut, the way it looks and the way it feels. Whenever I look in a mirror, I cringe. Just thinking about it leaves a pit in my gut, a terrible sick feeling. The confidence I had built up and sustained since my last haircut (my hair had grown back) had quickly dissipated as soon as I took the mirror from the barber and studied his work. From that point, I knew I that this would be my fate for the next month or so. I have to wait for the hair to come back, and it can’t come soon enough. I kept a hat on my head all day today, even during class. But, the heavens thought it would be funny to do away with the terrible weather and let the sun shine through. So I look ridiculous with a hat on, and it’s as if someone wants to see my hair, and see my pain. I won’t give that part of Paris another shot. It doesn’t deserve one. Not from me. As of now, I’m on the long road to recovery, hat in hand.

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