Voluntary Involuntary Hair Cut

Though I’ve not yet accepted any offers, one that is very attractive to me comes from a major company. The kind of company where you have to have a background check, fill out all sorts of pre-hire paperwork, and take a drug test within a certain time frame from receiving “the e-mail” from the HR department.

Over the past 2 days, I’ve been taking a minute here and there to fill out said forms. This morning, I went to the designated testing place to take the drug test. Said drug test consisted of a urine analysis, and a hair test. No problema, right?

I be-bopped in there, announced myself, and we got down to business. Sign a bunch of paperwork? Check. Give out all your life history and all your identifying numerals? Check. Urinalysis? Check. Hair test? Well, here’s how it went down.

Tester: Okay, Janie, we need you to sit in this nice fluffy chair here. And since I’m new, my supervisor is going to watch me cut your hair. You’re my first hair test!

Janie: (in a squeakly little voice) Okaaaaaaay.

Tester: Now, I don’t know if you knew this, but we have to take 120 strands of your hair, from the scalp down. It will just be little chunks.

Janie: What? Dude. My hair is so fine, it shows scissor marks. I was in Pennsylvania last week, my bangs were so long, I borrowed scissors and chipped them out. And then, I couldn’t sleep because I just know my hair stylist is going to jump me out because I cut my hair myself. But CHUNKS of my hair, 60 strands thick, at once? I might as well buy my casket!!!

Tester: Well, thank God you have hair. We could take it from your private parts.

Janie: Oh. Yeah. Ummmmm...well, okay. I guess my noggin will do.

Supervisor: Lift up the top layer of her hair.

Janie: Oh, wait, let me do it, please. Can I pick where the bald spots are going to be?

Supervisor: It’s not going to show, that bad. And if we don't get enough hair, they'll call you back in and we'll have to do it all over again.

Janie: (nervous) Oh, right.

Tester: Lift your hair up, Janie, let’s get this deal done.

And Tester begins to twist my hair into chunks. I could hear all 60 cuts of the first batch. Had to be a super dull pair of scissors.

Supervisor: That’s good, Tester. Now let’s grab the other bunch.

Janie: Ummm....could I please see a mirror?

Supervisor: You won’t even be able to tell, I promise.

Janie: I can’t see it, but I can feel the stubby little ends where you cut my hair!

Tester: Okay, let’s do the other side. (And he does.)

I take a picture of the clump, and send it to my potential employer plus a couple of his managers in an e-mail. Here’s how that e-mail traffic went down.

Me: The things I do for you...120 strands. You owe me a haircut, whether or not I take this job.

El Patron: I’ll cut your hair! You may look more like Joe and Bob, though! (Both are balding.)

Joe: I’d be in trouble if they needed 120 strands.

Bob: Janie, if they don’t use all of the strands, can you get the leftovers? Maybe Joe and I can start a hair restoration program.

Me: Sure. I’ll need to draw up a royalty agreement to my benefit.

Bob: Just bill it to El Patron.

They crack me up. Lord only knows what they think of me.

I came home, ran some errands, and later, freshened up my hair to go out. About 50 more strands came out with the comb. I may never comb my hair again, because I don't think I can stand the loss.

Welcome to Mi Vida Loca.