I Just Got My Beard Professionally Trimmed For The First Time.

I'm very self-conscious about my beard ("And Napoleon was self-conscious about his height!" a young rabble-rouser yells from the crowd), it's why I just let whatever grow on my face. If I don't try to have good facial hair then people can't make fun of me for having bad facial hair. This rule applies to all aspects of life but particularly facial hair. Nevertheless, I decided recently I needed to have a professional trim my shit up before Thanksgiving.

I woke up this morning and intentionally let my morning wood go down naturally, I needed all my testosterone in my body. It was like fight night but instead of fighting another man I was simply working up the confidence to get a haircut. I even boxed (Liteboxer promo code KFC) to really rev my engine then I showered, got dressed in Carhartt and Dixie like men with grease stained hands and beards do, then walked out the door. I intentionally left at like 12:30, because that's when football would be on and surely no men in New York City would be getting their beards trimmed when football is on, saving me the embarrassment of having to ask to get my peach fuzz cut in front of others. Of course, I was wrong. 

I walked into the first barber shop I saw and it was full of dudes with Paul Bunyan beards. I felt like I just got pantsed at the Big Cock Convention and blurted out TAKE WALK-INS to exude confidence and a barber, mid-trim, told me they were full at the moment. All I needed was a slight hurdle to abort this mission so I told him that was NO PROBLEM and immediately turned to leave. 

"Wait I can take you in 10 min--"

"NO ITS OK. ITS OK" I assured him as my panicked hands dropped an AirPod, but I tried to keep my exiting momentum, so I bent over while continuing to move forward and ended up pretty much hobbling out the door? I scurried. What I'm saying is I scurried out of a barbershop, like a scared rodent. 

Jesus fucking Christ, John. That was pathetic. Get it together. I thought to myself. But at this stage I was so flustered I needed something to calm down. Like all men, I knew just the trick. 

I continued walking southeast through the West Village until I hit Bloomingdales. In an effort to find my mojo again, I did some shopping (retail therapy, as your mechanic father calls it). I bought a 300 dollar wool kimono. It's blue and pink and olive green and I love it. Next I went to All Saints and bought an animal print jacket. I love that as well. Both items are incredibly unnecessary and will be worn once and I don't know how I ever lived without them.

Feeling ready to conquer the world again, I set off to find another barbershop. As if it was fate, I quickly bumped into a short bus called The Mobile Barbershop. They offered a beard trim AND a personal consultation (hatchi matchi) for 25 dollars, quite the deal. I paced in front of the truck for a bit, pretending to look at my phone but actually working up the courage to step onto a bus and call my facial hair a "beard" to a stranger. Wasn't happening. I had only one club left in my "Make John feel good" bag.

Sitting in that Wendy's I gassed myself up like never before while I stress ate a spicy chicken meal, Dave's double, and a Frosty. There's hair on your face, dude! There just is. It's really not unreasonable to ask someone to cut it in exchange for money. You've never even had a hot towel that alone has to be worth it. I took one last bite of the double and was out the door. 

I was back in the West Village before I typed "barber" into my Google Maps and I located one right by Stonewall Inn, where the manliest of men have always gone to trim their beards. I walked in and asked the beautiful receptionist, Erin, if there was availability for walk-in and she informed me they could take me immediately. Awesome. No hurdle. Time to just do this. 

"It's just gonna be a beard trimming, by the way" I said as I took my jacket and scarf off and put down my shopping bags. Erin took one look at me and said "Oh… ohokaywecandefinitelydothat." She said it real fast, like you do when you're covering up the fact that you reacted naturally to something and it's embarrassing to the person you reacted to. After I turned down an espresso (bearded men drink coffee and we drink it black) and waited a few moments my barber informed me he was ready. 

"So what are we doing today?"

"Just a beard trim"

"Oh… ohokaywecandefinitelydothat" (YOU DIDN'T TELL HIM ERIN?!)

"I've never had one before, straight up I don't even know what to say right now. Can I just get it looking neater?"

"For sure. But you want it to look like you have a beard?" (He said "want it to look like you have a beard" in such a way that it felt condescending and ALL OF MY WORST NIGHTMARES ARE COMING TRUE)

"Yes please"

Never in my life have I been as stressed as I was for the next twenty minutes? Thirty minutes? I don't know, how long is a beard trim, it felt like an eternity to me. If you were wondering if all 600 muscles in the human body could flex simultaneously the answer is yes. I accomplished that feat no more than an hour ago and I had all of them going like I was at a bodybuilding competition. I laid there and I could actually hear him thinking "this dude does not need to be here." As he ran a trimmer over my face it sounded like a vacuum being run over a rug that was just cleaned yesterday, occasionally there would be the crinkle of debris but it was largely just the motor of the machine making the noise. Most of the experience was spent praying he'd somehow morph into Sweeney Todd and end the awkwardness. It would've been better for all involved. 

As he finished he raised my hair back up and tussled my hair, you know, like your uncle did when you were a child and he just gave you your first beer. He didn't ask how I looked because who gives a fuck, I don't have the facial hair of a person who deserves respect. I paid my bill, tipped almost 100% because who the fuck knows what you tip for a beard trim (idk how to do math but 20 bucks on 25 bucks), then walked home to write this. And that's how I spent my Sunday. How's the football going?