Well, I finally got a haircut. It’s not exactly what I was wanting, but I suppose it’s what I got. I guess it’s not too bad; but I’m not sure if I’m just telling myself that to calm myself down or whether it’s actually not too bad. I guess it’s what I have, though, so I have to live with it for a while. I went into the barber shop today and told the guy to take an inch or an inch and a half off, especially from the back. This is the guy that I haven’t been to since I had short hair. So he went and started clipping away with his scissors, and I began to look more and more bald – or less and less hairy, take your pick. Then he went and sprayed water all over it so I couldn’t even tell what it really looked like, and continued to trim and get everything the same length. I didn’t really see what it looked like until I got home and messed up my hair a bit to dry it off.
Now I’m frustrated. It’s way shorter than I wanted. I swear that guy only knows how to do one hairstyle. I think it still looks better than I used to have it, but I still don’t like it all the same. I’m pretty much never going back to that guy ever again – my dad can keep going there, that’s fine with me, but I’m going to somewhere else where I don’t come out looking like an army man every single time. I go in with shorter hair that needs trimming, and I end up looking like a soldier. Then I go in with long hair that needs trimming and I end up looking like I have shorter hair needing trimming – but I’m definitely not getting it trimmed anymore. He took the mirror and showed me the back and asked me if that was fine, and I said, “Yeah that’s fine.” I said the same thing for the sides and front. I just didn’t want him cutting it any shorter and going scissor-crazy. I’m not sure if they teach Polish immigrants how long an inch is, but for only an inch being cut off, there sure was a lot of hair on the floor afterwards.
Anyways, with all that said, I suppose this is what I have, and unless I eat Miracle-Gro, it’s not going to be getting any longer by complaining about it. So I’ll just have to make the best of it, and, of course, get all the attention and sympathy from the girls. That’s just a fringe benefit, though. It was my decision to give this guy one more chance, and now it’s my decision to never go back to the guy ever again unless I’m applying for the Marines or something. I paid $14 for a haircut I didn’t like. Maybe my parents would be willing to pay me back for that. Hmm.
Besides having my precious locks of hair chopped off mercilessly by a cruel savage, I also went and dropped off a resume at Marco Sales Inc. (I’m assuming it’s incorporated, though I don’t know, but having that on the end just sounds cool, so I’m putting it on). I’m running out of options, so last night my parents were pretty much yelling at me about not doing enough to get a job, etc. I was yelling back about how I had sent out 30 resumes, and followed up on most of them. My dad was trying to explain stuff to me that I obviously already knew, since he’s only told me that a thousand times. He was saying things like, “Well, you didn’t apply early enough, and all the college students came and sucked up all the jobs.” Duh. And my personal favourite, “Well, the places you applied to obviously don’t want you, no matter how good you think you are, so you just need to apply to more.” Thanks, Dad, you’re so good for my self-esteem. He was trying to tell me not to apply to the places that didn’t want me, and to apply to the ones that did, and I was basically just telling him to shut up, because there’s no possible way to know which places are which until you apply. Then he ended off with his ever-popular line, “Well, just send out another thirty then.” Too bad I just can’t think of another thirty places off the top of my head, unless he’s wanting me to apply to all the sex shops and everything as well. I could do that if he really wanted me to. I’m sorry I don’t have the credentials to be a financial consultant – that means that most places aren’t going to hire someone like me. Most places will only hire older people – banks, suit shops, any places like Future Shop with sales associates like that, and other similar places are all off the list. That significantly reduces the number of places to apply to.
Anyways, now that I have all that off my chest, I’m feeling much better. I had to vent, so instead of venting on someone else, I decided to post it onto the internet for everyone to see and not read. It’s more a matter of getting it out, and since this is where I write about pretty much every aspect of my life, there’s no better place to spill it all out. With all that said, I think I’ll have a good chance of getting a job at Marco Sales, just because it’s a factory job, and nobody really needs any skills – other than basic motor skills – in order to do that. The only reason I really wouldn’t get a job there is if they’ve already filled all their positions. But considering I know that Zeth turned down the job and Melissa quit recently, chances are that they haven’t. Besides, Melissa isn’t 16 yet, so she’s not even legally entitled to work. If they hired her, I’m liking my chances. But anyways, we’ll see what happens. If Home Hardware decides they want me, then that’s my first priority, rather than a factory job, working 3 PM-12 midnight. But we’ll just have to wait and see.
That’s all I have to say about today. It’s quite good that I can get all my frustrations out on here where no one is hurt rather than waiting and bottling it all up to spew it out on someone else. I must say that I’ve never regretted making this blog thing here – it’s helped me immensely. I mean, at the very least, it’s meant that I don’t have to talk to people as much, because they already read my blog and know what happened. I was talking to Steph on the phone about some situation that happened, and she basically finished my sentence for me. I didn’t ask whether she had read it on my blog, but I suspect that might be what happened. It was quite funny, actually. But anyways, I’m going to just end this off here and then go eat some lunch or something. Toodle-loo.