Find Dorothy & tell her to meet you at the yellow brick road. When you come to the end, ask the man for a brain...

I pulled a drama queen today and I'm a little embarassed.

I went to get my hair cut but couldn't get an appointment anywhere. Now, my hair's not that difficult to cut; it's the typical "asian fade" and there's not much else I can do with it except dye it, shave it all off or grow it out. So, I keep it the way it is. I went to (name deleted) and sat down in the chair.

There were many signs that should have pointed me out the door before the debaucle continued.

(1) To greet me in the waiting area, she reminded me of Caretaker Filch suspiciously peering around a corner in the Harry Potter movies
(1) It smelled like the woman had sat in the very chair I was in and chain-smoked all day until I arrived.
(2) Her hands shook as she put the paper thing around my neck.
(3) The razor shook as she buzzed my sides.
(4) She didn't spritz water on the top before attacking the bush that is my hair.

Now, I saw these signs and should have fled. But there's something about interfering with a professional doing their job before it's been done that prevented me from saying anything. What can I say? It's a pet peeve. I mean, the only time I've ever stopped someone providing a service was when a manicurist in Chicago drew blood. That's once in 27 years. (I think I'm 27, but I might not be...) But, it wasn't until she claimed to have finished and asked me -- is it short enough? -- that I began to tremble. I put one finger on the left side of my head where the shaving had stopped and the blending was supposed to begin, and then put my other index finger at its corresponding spot on the right side of my head. My two fingers were an inch and half apart. I found my midline and measured the length to the left side and then on the right. There was also an inch and a half (maybe more) difference. I showed her the difference. She looked at my head. She looked at the mirror. She looked back at my head.

"I don't see the difference."

Not only that, but I then found that the area that she had shaved...the part where the razor and guard seem to make mistakes impossible...was different lengths on the left than on the right. My sideburns were a mess. The stylist working across from this woman offered to fix the disaster that was this cut. I apologized to her, assuring her that I was sure she was a fully competent stylist, but expressed my intense need to run as fast as I could. She apolgized and I left, shaking me head and trembling in a state of disbelief. I think I was trembling more because I was embarassed about making a big deal out a haircut that will grow out in about a week or two.

But then, some benevolent being led me to Capricio. I walked in...not at all dressed to be in this type of salon... and proceeded to treat the receptionist like my own private therapist.

"It's...it's...it's...help me. Look at it. I....I ....I...help me." I think I even shook a little bit. I might have drooled a bit too. The beginnings of tears might have formed as well.

An ordinary psychiatrist would have prescribed Prozac immediately. Only problem was they closed in 15 minutes. The wonderful man of god, Munem, came down the stairs and, listening to my bumbling, asked me what was wrong. I pointed at my hair. "It looks like I put a toupee on crooked." He leaned his head to one side and led me to his chair.

After he completely fixed the debaucle on my head, washed, shampooed and trimmed a little more, I felt like a complete idiot. I reacted better and more calmly when Bush was re-elected. He then gave me a final rinse and waxed my eyebrows.

I tipped 80%...$20. I should have tipped more.

Hello, my name is Brent. I am a drama queen.