There are heartbreaks and there are breakdowns, and then there is that moment when the barber confidently spins the chair around and reveals the mirror and suddenly the room feels colder and the soul feels older. No accidents no betrayals just a pair of scissors and a man’s ambition to freestyle on someone’s head like Picasso on a bad day.
It starts with confidence. Sit on the chair ask for something simple maybe just a cleanup or a slight change and suddenly the scissors move like they have a mind of their own. The mirror shows something midway but there is hope. Maybe it will shape up maybe it will settle. But no it only gets worse.
The worst part is the barber looks proud. He wipes the neck, hands the mirror like he just made a masterpiece. Meanwhile the only thing visible is regret. Not a word just a long stare and the realisation that going bald might have been a better option.
The walk back home becomes a hide and seek mission. Every glass door every parked car every side mirror feels like a personal bully. People look twice not because it looks good. The haircut belongs to no category. Not stylish not funny just lost.
Suddenly there is an urge to cancel every outing for the next twenty one days. Shampoo bottles get judged, caps become emotionally supportive and even pillows are approached carefully to not damage the remaining dignity.
This was not just a haircut this was a plot twist, the kind that turns a regular weekend into a three week hiding mission. Confidence left the chat entirely and the moral of the story never trust a man who says "bro same cut but better in my style" because that is how people ask for a cleanup and walk out looking like a social experiment.
No comments:
Post a Comment