Today, I received a haircut so bad that I’m now hearing voices telling me to set fire to the French countryside, and you can’t prove they’re not from God. I think I may have sparked a new Renaissance for the misleadingly named F.A.B. or fuck-ass-bob. At least, that’s what I’m currently telling myself to keep from crying. And it’s not like I never experiment with my hair or hate trying new things—I had a shaved head for a year. That looked better than whatever “style” hangs in my periphery now. Calling it a “style,” actually, is wrong because that implies forethought, reason, a design, a plan, a God. Nope, my hairstylist held one of those bendy erasers to the side of my hair, gave it a good shake, and said, “Good enough, let that guide the scissors.” This is why we need to bring back religion because a haircut marked by the unshaken edge of the cross wouldn’t do me like this. Not even a crucifixion could produce such a result. Look at Jesus—he died and resurrected with perfect tresses. That’s God’s promise.
Actually, the scene of my betrayal and subsequent spiritual awakening reads pretty biblically. My hairstylist greeted me warmly with a kiss on the cheek to show the Roman—I mean, receptionists (it’s not my fault everyone’s Italian in Providence)—who was to be marked as an enemy of the empire with a personal crown of thorns. Then, she got me talking about my life to distract me from her handiwork. I quipped, “Haha, I hope it isn’t too short. I have kind of a square face and don’t want to look like Lord Farquad!” and she replied, “Haha, yeah, once this poor girl came in, and I realized mid-way through her cut that she had begun to resemble Lord Farquad. Whoops! I watch a lot of Shrek with my kids.” What the hairstylist may not have realized is that she had just received a prophetic divine vision of my immediate future as told through Satan’s will. As it is written, so it shall be done. Yay, me. Then, she snipped off way more than “just one inch, right?” and asked me if I loved it. Usually, I follow the Godly practice of saying, “Yes, wow, so much! It’s amazing! Thanks so much!” But, at meeting my fifteenth-century peasant patron-saint gaze in the mirror, I saw visions of villages burning and people rising up to meet their creator. So instead, I just went, “Thank you!” and she took notice, leaving me in the uncomfortable position of comforting my hairstylist about the bad haircut she gave me—as if she was the larger victim than my head, forced to sport this punishment until it grows out.
Then, the salon had the audacity to charge me $75 for my humiliation, and I ran home, fussing my hair as if that could fix things. This leads me to my new holy quest from God—to destroy all over-priced hair salons with even vaguely French-sounding names and replace them with the true rulers of the hairstyling world: gay friends who learned everything they know about styling off of Pinterest in 2018. I’m taking sign-ups to my holy army of people who shouldn’t have trusted the process. Join me, and let’s save my hair—for God and Country!