Vile Weed Of A Woman Goes Batshit On A Loser Who Tries To Get A Refund For A Haircut

OK. We all can agree this customer (huh?) is crazier than the average cat lady. There’s no doubt about it. And her husband defending her senility might as well not be wearing any pants because he sure has never owned any in that marriage. But who in the wildest FUCK thinks it’s kosher to ask for a refund because of a bad haircut? That’s insanity. You know what you’re getting into, plus that shit grows back. Consider it a casualty of war when you walk into a Supercuts. You win some, you lose some, but you live to fight another day by saving a couple bucks for a $12 haircut. It’s like asking for your money back at McDonald’s because your Big Mac doesn’t taste like it was flipped by Bobby Flay’s dick. You get what you pay for and live with it. Not to mention it looks like Slipnot didn’t nearly get a butchering. You wanna see an outright massacre, pal? Try going in for a trim and coming out like a eggplant:

My lifetime batting average on haircuts is well below the Mendoza line. Supercuts MASSACRED me on that one. There’s nothing that could’ve been done to fix it other than hat it out. I’m not a picky hair person by any means. Growing up I’d have the same guy 60+ year old dude every time who knows all I want is #3 clippers on the side and a little off the top. After 10 min of listening to him complain about Philly sports, the family and telling me to get as many “Birds” as possible before marriage, I paid and tipped the man for his fine work and was out of there. Bada-Bing Bada-Boom. It couldn’t have been more structured and American. Ever since he died (or possibly went away for one of his side “businesses”), I’ve been S.O.L. Hell, even if he has been dead for years and I’d still trust him to even me out.

That Supercuts biddy was straight out of “Beauty School” with tattoos that suggested it doubled as a rehab. She shoved me down in the seat with very little communication and started going to TOWN with the clippers right out of the gate. Within seconds I was way too short on the sides so I ended up looking like some dude who belongs in a ’90’s Mentos commercial. The only way to even it out on the top is to make me look like I’m 5 and my mother just combed my hair before school. I would’ve loved to say something but she one of these people who cuts your hair, for whatever reason, you couldn’t shoot the shit with her. You’re a legitimate psychopath if you cut hair for a living and can’t carry on a general conversation for 10 minutes about the most generic bullshit possible. Have you ever had a haircut where there’s nothing to talk about? Awkward as fuck. She brought up the weather 5 separate times. 5 FUCKING TIMES! Come on, toots. This isn’t Nam, this is barbershop/salon etiquette. There are rules. And you’re damn right when she asked me how it looked I said “Great, Thank you”, tipped her, then went on my merry way. Why? Because I’m one of those people modern day society calls a “Pussy”. But seriously, once the damage was done, what could I say that would fix this chode of a cut? The sole thing I could do is stop by Rita’s, order all the custard they have, then go to cry in the shower. It was the only way to make myself feel human again after Supercuts declared Jihad on my scalp.

Trust me – Old school/old man, black, and/or gay salon barbershops or bust. You’re giving your dome a deathwish if you’re a male and don’t invest in those options. The least you can do is suck it up and stroll into the hood for a cut. If I can walk out not only alive, but fresh, so can you.