Becky Mitchell is a haircut professional. I don’t know what schmancy beauty school she went to, but when I go to her salon, she cares for every strand. She broke her foot the other day, and couldn’t cut my hair.

Going to a “Great Clips” is always a gamble. You throw the dice and see what haircut you’re going to end up with. When I walked in, the only other guy there was just leaving the chair, with a bowl cut and a bewildered look on his face. I’m not convinced that was the style he was going for. With trepidation, I took my seat.

You know your haircut is going to be a real winner when the gum-smacking worker holds the clippers close to your head and demands, “So what are you, a three?” Nervously I explained my case; I usually go to this stylist I really like and I just had a haircut like, 3 weeks ago. I like how it is now. I’ve just got a wedding to go to and I only need you to clean it up a little bit. Period. She responded, “So like, what, a four?” BUZZZZZZZZZZZ! She was already tearing into the side of my hair.

I sat there dumbfounded as she moved around my scalp forming the base of what looked like to me, a bowl cut. She was a one trick pony. I was speechless. And after a minute or two of uncomfortable buzzing and gum chomping, the first words she said were, “you know, it looks like it’s taking more off from this area than this area...” Chomp....chomp.

As she (THANKFULLY) whipped out the scissors to fix the bowl, I learned that her husband had done some of the work on the Eldredge Manor, “When we got married in December, he told me he could get a steal of a deal on a reception. I told him after being married five times, I didn’t want one.”

It was a cultural experience.

I left there thinking, I just paid someone to make me look worse. I might as well walk into the store and lay down some money for B.O. scented deodorant. Ridiculous. And you know, you wonder when it was that your dad started listening to oldies music, or when he gave up the afro of his youth for his current conservative do. This might be the end of the line for me, the “missionary” is the only option I’ve got left. I gambled, and the house won.

Becky, please move to Colorado.