I knew that the itch to cut was temporary and something to act on quickly. On my way home from work I came across a busy salon where everyone looked pretty decent.

The salon�s owner took me into his own hands, and he assured me that I would look great when I finished. However, John is a big, fat, lying asshole who can rot in hell.

To sum things up, I asked for a Cynthia Nixon:

and left with a Florence Henderson:

John, the ding-dong extraordinaire, had the bright idea to hold my hair in a regular ponytail and snap off 11 inches instead of tying it at the nape of my neck to maintain some hair on top. I ended up with a line of mini-hairs, mid-head, without camouflage of any sort.

In tears, I stopped at Sally Beauty Supply for a headband to permanently attach to my head until the nastiness grew out to a point where I could cut it and it not be to my ears. I asked a cashier what it looked like in the back, and she said that it looked like he cut �fake layers� with the obvious line. If a cashier gives it to you like that (thank you for honesty, woman!), you know it�s bad.

John closed up shop by then, so there was no going back.

I finished all of the tears I could muster over being transformed into ugly and boy-looking, and I headed to the Chic@go G@y M3n�s Ch0ir concert to see my good friend Oz perform. The man can work it!

After the show wrapped up, we met in the lobby. His face said, �Whoa! Crap!� and I asked that he not lie and say that I looked cute. Cute I was not.

We laughed and then went to the diner for some chit-chat and dessert. It�s always nice to catch up with someone fun. We called it an early night, and I went home to cry some more. (Please see the photos above if you�re wondering why I�d be crying.)

I slept for crap, rehearsing how calmly I would ask for my money back the next day. How I would not cry in John�s presence. How I would not embarrass him in front on his other clients, as surely everyone screws something up occasionally.

Crap happens. I forgive. Just give me my money back, and don�t you dare touch my hair again!

So I entered the salon the next morning, and John was wrapping up with someone else. He shouted, �You want me to cut some more for you?� I shook my head firmly side to side. I don�t think so John. I stood quietly until he finished up with his client, smiled at her to indicate that she looked nice, and then motioned for John to step away from other customers so we could handle this discreetly.

He asked again if I wanted him to cut more, and I said that wasn�t an option. I was very unhappy with my cut, that it was nothing like I requested, and that I was going elsewhere to get it fixed.

Suddenly, he went ape shit on me. �YOU�RE NOT GETTING YOUR MONEY BACK!!!�

No, I hadn�t even asked yet.

�John, my hair is screwed up. I�ve got a line across the back, and I look like I�m 50. I�m barely half that, I don�t intend on looking like this.�

He continued with his apeshitedness, screaming about how he used to be a lawyer, how he cut my hair how I wanted it, and how I wasn�t getting my money back.

�John, I tried to handle this discreetly and quietly to avoid any embarrassment. Please calm down to discuss this with me.�

I kid you not, I really and truly kept my cool while in there. I remained calm as this man who royally horked my hair up was screaming and shouting, berating me for wanting a refund on his screw-up.

The other patrons stared in disbelief at me with my ugly hair and controlled demeanor, as he made a complete ass of himself in demanding that I leave his salon.

Seriously, I got kicked out of his salon.

I apologized to the patrons, saying that it was a shame that they witnessed how this small business owner treats dissatisfied customers before they had the opportunity to walk out and not give him their business.

As I went outside to contact my credit card to revoke payment for services not rendered, one of the ladies who had just finished her hair appointment approached me.

�Your hair looks like crap. He�s an asshole. I won�t be back.�

So now that I�ve got Discover Card working on it, I�ve devised the best way to piss this man off time and time again while bring in the business down from the inside out.

Every day I�m going to go in there during peak time, get recognized, get thrown out, and act confused in front of new customers who don�t know any back story. They�ll just see me enter, John go ape shit, poor and pitiful me look baffled about why I can�t get a pedicure that day, and wonder about the sanity of the man about to cut their locks.

If John can�t keep his cool when he knows he screwed up and give me back my measly $30, I can at least have fun with it while raising his blood pressure and driving customers away.

A restraining order certainly costs more than $30, and it�s hard to serve it when he doesn�t know my name or address unless the credit card company provides it.

Every. Single. Day.

All. New. People.

In up and up news, I recommend Christy at Salon 1800 if you�re looking for any sort of cut. She was clearly upset when I told her about my horrible day, told me what an awful stylist he was based on his chop job on the back of my head, fixed it a la Jennie Garth a couple years back, and left me with a hug when I booked an appointment two months from now.

That was the major excitement of my weekend.

From

to wanting

to getting

to ending up .

See you tonight, John.�