I walked into one of those chop-shop haircut places the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I know it was a Wednesday because when I met up with my buddy at Valley Rescue Mission that night, he took one look at me, and in a semi-horrified-eye-ogle said to me, “What happened to you?”

I know it was the day before Thanksgiving because I intentionally made a mental note of it just to see how long it would take for my head to recover.

Juanita was a super nice lady. Round face. Big smile. Dark eyes. She was cutting up with me right from the get-go.

“Are ju here for a haircut?”

“Uh, yes ma’am.”

“I knew that. Everybody come in here . . . come for a haircut.”

I hate the pre-haircut ritual of explaining what I want done. Largely because I have no idea how to speak in salon language. I don’t know the names of the different type cuts. I don’t know my “blends” from my “textured layers.”

All I know is that when the haircut is complete, I’d rather not look like a third grader took a pair of goat shears to my noggin. I’d like to have Tom Cruise’s hair. Or maybe his hairdresser. But since I know that neither one of those is going to happen, I’ll settle for having most of my own hair left when the cape comes off.

“How would ju like for me to cut your hair,” she asks.

I suspect that she is required to ask this question. I also know that there is a better than 80 percent chance that no matter what I say, she will cut my hair however she sees fit to cut it.

“I don’t like short hair.”

I always emphasize this. To me this is a very simple and clear directive. This means, in case you’re having a hard time following along, that I do not want a SHORT haircut.

“I like long layers.”

Again, I’m not really up to speed on the war chest of salon words available to me, but using the word “layers” is something I think she will understand. And by using the word “long” I am once again emphasizing the idea that I would prefer not end up with a SHORT haircut.

I also use words like “trim and shape” around the edges. To me, these words represent a hesitancy on my part to get a full-scale haircut. These words imply, by definition, that my intent is to keep the hair cutting impact on my head to a minimum.

And to be clear, I have never once sat in the chair beneath the cape and said to the lady standing next to me: “Please, I’d love a short haircut with gaps in it. And if you can work it out, I’d love a couple of cowlicks to remind me of when I was ten-years-old.”

But, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving of 2024, that is what I got.

I already know that my ability to describe the haircut I want is inadequate. I’ll give Juanita the benefit of the doubt and just say that she got distracted. She tried to give me what I asked for, but somewhere along the way our communication broke down. Her focus got sidetracked.

And I ended up with the worst haircut I’ve seen in decades.

It didn’t help that two days later, the day after Thanksgiving, I would be traveling to Charolette, NC to attend a wedding. While at this wedding I would be meeting some of Marion’s good friends for the first time. I would be in a suit and tie with a haircut that looked like I’d been through a sheep shearing contest at the county fair.

I normally don’t give a second thought to a bad haircut. I’ve had so many of them over the years. This is what I get for stepping into these kinds of chop shops. Every trip you get a different stylist. Every cut you roll the dice.

I know this. Once in about every five cuts, you get a good one. The rest of the time you get, at best, a mediocre cut. And those times when you get a really bad one, the hair always grows back. And you start over again.

But I’m here to tell you that this last one was a catastrophic haircut. I can blow off a bad haircut pretty easily. I can look in the mirror, frown, get over it, and move on most of the time. But this one wasn’t going away anytime soon.

A month goes by. Another wedding. Local this time.

We get dressed up to go to a venue in Luthersville, Georgia. The bride is the daughter of the lady who cuts Marion’s hair. Marion and her hairdresser have been friends for years and years. And over the last year and a half, this lady has said numerous times that she can’t wait to meet me.

When you get a really bad haircut, four weeks is not really long enough for a full recovery. Marion is trying desperately with hair spray to make my head behave in front of the mirror, but the cowlick on the back of my head ain’t having nothing to do with it.

So, not only do I look like I just got a tongue bath from a Holstein, I smell like my mama after a heavy dose of Aqua Net.

I hate hairspray.

After the ceremony the crowd was milling around outside. Young faces smiling and laughing. A photographer grabbing the perfects shots. The bride’s mother, Marion’s friend, stops by to say hello.

We exchange pleasantries, but I’m pretty sure I saw her twitch when she took a closer look at my head. She cuts hair for a living. She can’t help but look.

This gal is a professional. She has a following. She is booked out until the next century, and the only way you can get an appointment with her is to lurk in the corner of her shop waiting for someone to die so you can move in.

The word I got was that her comment upon meeting me was exactly what you’d expect from a hair stylist.

“Really nice guy. His hair needs some help, though.”

“That’s it,” I said to myself. “I’m done with the chop shops.”

That was all back before Christmas. As soon as the new year got under way, I went on the hunt for a new place to get my head in shape.

And I found one. Black and white tile floor. The blue and red barber pole spinning. Massive old-time chairs in front of huge mirrors. A picture of Barney Fife framed over the pay telephone on the back wall.

This barber shop has been around a long time. I guess I just quit paying attention. I didn’t think the old shops even existed anymore.

But I walked in and took a seat last Friday. Allyson told me she’d been cutting hair here for 15 years. “Good chance I’ll figure out what you want pretty quick.”

She took one look at my head.

“Lord, honey, what happened to you?”