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June 2008
6/19/08
Come On, Chop Chop
6/16/08
6/1/08
Thursday, June 19, 2008
2:55:00 PM EDT
Feeling Angry
Hearing Alexz Johnson - Here We Go Again
Why does shit always happen to me? I'm not talking shit as in houses getting struck by lightning but shit as in, oh fucking my. My fucking hair is fucked up.
I'm done with the explicits.
The world remembers me by my bald head. Shaving it was the way to go. No patience, really. It was out of laziness. But in the Summer of 2006 when I spent the month in Italy, it totally grew out on me, and I looked in the mirror after getting out of the tiny-one-person-don't-drop-the-soap shower one day and realized that, quite frankly, my hair looked pretty damn good like this. So since that defying moment, I left it like that.
When I came back in July people didn't recognize me. That's how I wanted it. They said I had lost the weight and gained, well, hair. One of my cousins, you know the kind that never watches what she says said once at a party; "Joe, you look so European. Ever since you got back you stayed european!" And I said thanks for the kind-of back handed insult/compliment. So I tell people, that Joey stayed in Italy and the new one is the one you see now. Total epiphany, no joke. Bring out the Bible.
The only problem I have is maintaining it. Bitch, I was bald since I was in 6th grade back in '98 when Beverly Hills, 90210 was still on the air, Target had just opened in Commack and the Mushroom doo was so "in" that all I had to do was comb it and head to homeroom. In 2006 the Shroom just won't fly. So I styled it usually the same way every day, the messy do.
Flash forward now to the Summer of 2008, 2 years since the epiphany and it was time for the monthly cut/trim at the local barber shop.
Bitch, this is where things went arwy.
The dudes at the place (that shall remain unnamed although I'd rather give them the bad reputation but quite frankly I don't know the name of the place) all speak Italian and always ask me the same question. "Jou go-a to-a Italia eber?" and I say "Yes, twice." and they ask where, it's like a fucking routine. "Naples, Rome, (or Roma as you're supposed to call it to an Italian) Venice, Milan (aka Milano) and Rimini which is the equivelincy of like, Miami or something with beaches. They get shocked and aske me questions that I don't know because quite frankly I was backpacking and stayed at these places for 2 to 3 days, 4 tops. Now bitch, cut my hair.
They do. Except this guy today was giving me a hard time. He was asking me how many inches off my sideburns do I want. I said I don't know and that the man I usually get to cut my hair knows when I tell him to TRIM THE FUCKING HAIR. Quite frankly, he didn't know what the hell that ment. Then he asked me about the top of my hair. And then the back. At this point I'm realizing that this motherfucker doesn't know what he's doing and he's gonna fuck up my hair. I realize how he doesn't grab the whole chunk of hair with his fingers like the NORMAL cutters do. He's doing it in a weird way, sort of letting the sicissors do the work by itself. Not grabbing hair, and he wasn't using the buzzer to buzz the back and side of my hair. Somethings up. I say loudly, "OK WE'RE GOOD NOW!" startling him while he's mid-cut with sicissors and comb still in hand. "Ogay, I get mirror-a for-a jou-a!" I see the back of my hair and have a slight panic attack in the barber chair. I'm talking pale face and open mouth and all.
Fucker, I am not going back to balding my head. Ever again! But at this point I'm thinking fucking shit I just might have to!
I'm talking, half buzzed on one side and half long on the other side. Some strands of hair were long while some were cut extremely short. I could tell that something was fucked up, up on my head just by running my hands through it.
Must...make...random...U-Turn...NOW.
There was an independant hair-cutting place I had just passed and ran into the haircutting place like a motherfucker out of a horror scene. They were Russian. I'm very fimiliar with Russian being friends with Rachel for what, 9 years now? Holy shit has it been that long?
There was nobody in the place. I was like god loves me. Sort of.
"Can I help you?" he asks brushing the floor filled with hair.
"Yeah I sure hope so!" I replied, voice filled with hope. "I just got back from the place across the street and they bloged up my hair, I don't know if you can see." I'm pointing to my oh so difinitive hair. He leans in and looks and grunts. "This really was the place across the street?" he asks. "Yes!" I replied anxiously. He tells his Russian girlfriend or co-worker and talks to her in Russian telling her about my hair. She leans in and grabs a chunk. She shrieks. "OK I fix!" she says.
Let me tell you motherfuckers. I was studying her every inch and every move. I was not about to get shit-haired on again. She kept shrieking while cutting my hair, gasping and saying "Oh my god!" She could see the fuck up clearly now, the rain is gone.
She took a while fixing it. But I saw how short she had to cut my hair to even it out. She brushed my back with that white brush with baby powder and said "OK, complete!" And I looked in the mirror with excitement.
YES! It's perfect. I thanked them so much and they gave me their business card. I'm like hells yeah, I'll come back to this place that fixes shit-hair. Fuck that Italian place. No more questions about my trip to Italy. I want business up on my head taken care of the way it should be.
Never has my hair looked so good. God I'm so vein, I bet I think this song is about me.
Written by j0eg1286 Blog about this entry |
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2:55:00 PM EDT
Feeling Angry
Hearing Alexz Johnson - Here We Go Again
Come On, Chop Chop
I'm done with the explicits.
The world remembers me by my bald head. Shaving it was the way to go. No patience, really. It was out of laziness. But in the Summer of 2006 when I spent the month in Italy, it totally grew out on me, and I looked in the mirror after getting out of the tiny-one-person-don't-drop-the-soap shower one day and realized that, quite frankly, my hair looked pretty damn good like this. So since that defying moment, I left it like that.
When I came back in July people didn't recognize me. That's how I wanted it. They said I had lost the weight and gained, well, hair. One of my cousins, you know the kind that never watches what she says said once at a party; "Joe, you look so European. Ever since you got back you stayed european!" And I said thanks for the kind-of back handed insult/compliment. So I tell people, that Joey stayed in Italy and the new one is the one you see now. Total epiphany, no joke. Bring out the Bible.
The only problem I have is maintaining it. Bitch, I was bald since I was in 6th grade back in '98 when Beverly Hills, 90210 was still on the air, Target had just opened in Commack and the Mushroom doo was so "in" that all I had to do was comb it and head to homeroom. In 2006 the Shroom just won't fly. So I styled it usually the same way every day, the messy do.
Flash forward now to the Summer of 2008, 2 years since the epiphany and it was time for the monthly cut/trim at the local barber shop.
Bitch, this is where things went arwy.
The dudes at the place (that shall remain unnamed although I'd rather give them the bad reputation but quite frankly I don't know the name of the place) all speak Italian and always ask me the same question. "Jou go-a to-a Italia eber?" and I say "Yes, twice." and they ask where, it's like a fucking routine. "Naples, Rome, (or Roma as you're supposed to call it to an Italian) Venice, Milan (aka Milano) and Rimini which is the equivelincy of like, Miami or something with beaches. They get shocked and aske me questions that I don't know because quite frankly I was backpacking and stayed at these places for 2 to 3 days, 4 tops. Now bitch, cut my hair.
They do. Except this guy today was giving me a hard time. He was asking me how many inches off my sideburns do I want. I said I don't know and that the man I usually get to cut my hair knows when I tell him to TRIM THE FUCKING HAIR. Quite frankly, he didn't know what the hell that ment. Then he asked me about the top of my hair. And then the back. At this point I'm realizing that this motherfucker doesn't know what he's doing and he's gonna fuck up my hair. I realize how he doesn't grab the whole chunk of hair with his fingers like the NORMAL cutters do. He's doing it in a weird way, sort of letting the sicissors do the work by itself. Not grabbing hair, and he wasn't using the buzzer to buzz the back and side of my hair. Somethings up. I say loudly, "OK WE'RE GOOD NOW!" startling him while he's mid-cut with sicissors and comb still in hand. "Ogay, I get mirror-a for-a jou-a!" I see the back of my hair and have a slight panic attack in the barber chair. I'm talking pale face and open mouth and all.
Fucker, I am not going back to balding my head. Ever again! But at this point I'm thinking fucking shit I just might have to!
I'm talking, half buzzed on one side and half long on the other side. Some strands of hair were long while some were cut extremely short. I could tell that something was fucked up, up on my head just by running my hands through it.
Must...make...random...U-Turn...NOW.
There was an independant hair-cutting place I had just passed and ran into the haircutting place like a motherfucker out of a horror scene. They were Russian. I'm very fimiliar with Russian being friends with Rachel for what, 9 years now? Holy shit has it been that long?
There was nobody in the place. I was like god loves me. Sort of.
"Can I help you?" he asks brushing the floor filled with hair.
"Yeah I sure hope so!" I replied, voice filled with hope. "I just got back from the place across the street and they bloged up my hair, I don't know if you can see." I'm pointing to my oh so difinitive hair. He leans in and looks and grunts. "This really was the place across the street?" he asks. "Yes!" I replied anxiously. He tells his Russian girlfriend or co-worker and talks to her in Russian telling her about my hair. She leans in and grabs a chunk. She shrieks. "OK I fix!" she says.
Let me tell you motherfuckers. I was studying her every inch and every move. I was not about to get shit-haired on again. She kept shrieking while cutting my hair, gasping and saying "Oh my god!" She could see the fuck up clearly now, the rain is gone.
She took a while fixing it. But I saw how short she had to cut my hair to even it out. She brushed my back with that white brush with baby powder and said "OK, complete!" And I looked in the mirror with excitement.
YES! It's perfect. I thanked them so much and they gave me their business card. I'm like hells yeah, I'll come back to this place that fixes shit-hair. Fuck that Italian place. No more questions about my trip to Italy. I want business up on my head taken care of the way it should be.
Never has my hair looked so good. God I'm so vein, I bet I think this song is about me.
Written by j0eg1286 Blog about this entry |
Add to del.icio.us | digg this
