Saturday, April 16, 2011

The worst haircut I've ever had.

I know that the thought of me having "hair" may seem downright blasphemous, but you need to remember that I have taken mammalian form to complete my ministry here on earth during this dispensation.

Those who are worthy enough by kissing my ass consistently and thoroughly have seen my true form with their spiritual eyes.

With that being said, my "human form" of flesh and occasional boners has had quite a few different hair styles.  Growing up in Utah during the 80's meant that I was on the cutting edge of boy's fashion by sporting the "side spike."  This was easy to do because my hair naturally spikes as it gets shorter.  I had to grow my hair out a little when I decided one year to be Superman for Halloween as a child.

The picture of me flexing in the Super Suit as a six year old boy with a very slight curl in the hair across my forehead is a favorite of most of my family members and friends.

I've had short hair, long hair, shaved head, a Mohawk, a mullet, and another year for Halloween I was Wolverine and that was a very difficult growing period and preparation because there is a fine line between Wolverine's hair and A Flock of Seagull's.

As I've already stated before, the MTC was an Orwellian nightmare from which I could not escape.  When I finally left, my feelings could only be described by quoting H.P. Lovecraft by saying, "I thanked heaven that we were clear of a haunted, accursed realm where life and death, space and time, have made black and blasphemous alliances, in the epochs since matter first weighed and swam on the planet's scarce cooled crust."

Two months at the MTC means that one MUST get a haircut eventually.  This was difficult for me because as I've mentioned, my hair spikes as it gets shorter, and short, spiky hair is missionary stigmata for being Satan.

The missionary haircut code demands that missionaries look like old douche bags from the 1950's - 19 year old boys with faux comb-overs.

Our district leader (the one that we took great pleasure pissing on in the shower) spent at least 15 minutes a day blowing drying his "sweep across" bangs just right and adjusting his part in order to look like the perfect missionary.  The spitting image of a general authority, but not balding quite as badly yet.

I had made an appointment with the MTC "barbers," and what an unfortunate lot of decrepit souls they were.  My particular "stylist" reminded me of what might happen if Mario stopped having his endless war with Bowser and given up on all his aspirations and dreams.  The man was clearly a useless substance abuser but the "gospel" was his drug of choice.

The Holy Spirit (also known as just my gut instinct) let me know that bad shit was going to go down with this unfortunate meat bag, but like everything else in the MTC, there was NO alternative.

I sat in his old timey barber stool - I guess the MTC thought they were quaint, or at least cheap, and informed him specifically that if he cut my hair too short, that it would spike, and he could not get the side part that was so desperately needed to "teach with the Spirit."

Of course the overly bloated skin sack of compressed organs and farts cut my hair too short, and he was surprised - SURPRISED! - after my vain attempts to warn him could NOT get my hair to part.

This obvious physical feature screamed that I was not in conformity with my fellow "Elders" and that panicked the "barber."  After flailing with a normal brush to part my hair, he reached for a brush that must have come from an expedition to a European Museum for the Spanish Inquisition.

Inch long metal spikes adorned the brush's head, and in spite of the "barber's" zeal and ferocity, the metal bladed brush could not get my hair to part.

In between grunts I told him, "My hair isn't going to part." And after a few more continued attempts, Dickstache parroted me by saying, "Yeah, your hair isn't going to part."

The healthy part of my brain screamed out, "WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SAY?!"  However, the rest of my brain that had been thoroughly washed, rinsed, and repeated with non stop talks about "obedience" kept my mouth shut.

At this point the pinnacle of "Friseury" decided to "do me a solid" and stated that he was going to cut my hair a different way and that if anyone said anything about my non-compliant haircut to "talk to him" and gave me a shorter hair cut into a 1950's military flat-top. However, being as competent as he was, his "level" was a little off and my flat-top was crooked.

I looked like fucking Gumby.

Unfortunately my hair was now too short to cut further.  The man couldn't get a straight line, and anything else "off the top" would have resulted in a bald head. While I was fine with that, I also had no control over the decisions of my life. I was a Mormon missionary after all, and that meant subjugation.

I kept that haircut for a month or so until I was finally in Germany, and it had grown out enough for someone competent to do.  One of my best haircuts I have ever had in my life came in Germany after looking like a big, green rubber character.  The lady who did my hair took special care in the spikiness and carefully layered and textured my hair.  I looked very chic.

But the other missionaries were very quick to point out how "worldly" my hair seemed.

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