Frank made me cut his hair. Yes, made me. He went out and bought a whole clipper set equipped with that crazy, scary, vibrator, I mean, razor with the color coded attachments for specific kinds of cuts.
His hair was getting wildly out of control and almost mullet like which is never good. I had asked him politely, I believe, for more than a month to get a haircut. I guess he didn’t pick up on the hint that I wanted him to get one, not get equipment to make my life a living hell. Win some, you lose some.
I was feeling scared and nauseas, as he pulled out the goods to complete this dreaded task from the Target bag. (He was a sweetie though and said he got me a surprise, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, I think he did that to dull the suffering I was about to endure while I cut his hair). I just could not believe that this kid would trust me to cut his hair, I mean is he nuts, has he lost his mind?
He was so insistent about it, what else could I do but just cut it already? So I did.
I didn’t think it was going so bad until Frank starts cringing and moving his head a bunch and saying it really hurts. Leaping up from the chair, in tears, TEARS mind you, he yanks the razor doodad out of my hands and cuts his hair himself. We did eventually discover that instead of doing it smoothly like I was supposed to according to the instructions (HA! Can you believe this thing came with instructions??? I about died reading them…cut hair??? Really??) I was more so pulling and tearing his hair. For that I did apologize, but in all honesty, maybe he deserved it for forcing me to cut his hair.
I eventually convinced him to surrender the razor because I secretly wanted a second chance, for redemption purposes mostly and now his hair is pretty good looking considering a complete novice did it.
I did inform him that I would NEVER under any circumstances cut his hair again. To which he responded that we have to do it once more to get his money’s worth out of it. To which I responded with damnit.
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