(I am sitting in a barber shop waiting for my turn. This place is part of a chain and everyone is asked their phone number and name to go in their system.)

Hairdresser: “Welcome to [Store]! Have you checked in online?”

Customer: “No. I’m just here for a haircut.”

Hairdresser: “Okay, can I get your phone number?”

Customer: “I’M JUST HERE FOR A HAIRCUT! I DON’T WANT TO FILL IN YOUR STUPID DEMOGRAPHIC! I’M GOING SOMEWHERE ELSE!”

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(I’m at the salon getting my hair cut with my stylist who I have been going to for nearly five years. We know each other quite well and both have a similar, snarky sense of humor. The stylist at the chair to our left brings over her new client, a stunning young woman in her 20s, with beautiful, thick blonde hair down to about the bottom of her waist.)

Other Stylist: “So, what are you looking for today?”

Client: “I just want about two inches taken off.”

(She then indicates with her hand what would be between four to six inches. My stylist and I lock eyes in the mirror and try not to laugh. The stylist and client go off to the sinks.)

Me: “Her boyfriend is SOOOOO lucky!”

(I go to my regular place to get my hair cut, and maybe my beard trimmed. Do bear in mind that I’m a guy in his 20s with a very straightforward haircut; it’s as vanilla as it gets. It’s also worth noting I’m on pretty good terms with the girl usually working there, but this time I see a rather sour-looking older woman.)

Me: “Hi, are you busy or can you fit me in?”

(She gives me the go-ahead. I quickly explain what I need done and the haircut begins. All seems to be in order until I notice my hair is starting to get a weird mohawk shape.)

Me: *in a casual, cheery tone* “Hey, sorry, could you please take that off the top there so it’s level? Also, just a reminder that I don’t like bangs, so those would need to be removed.”

Hairdresser: “Oh, no, I’m not doing that.”

Me: “What? “

Hairdresser: *rudely* “That’s stupid; I’m not giving a dumb haircut like that.”

(While I’m a very social and friendly guy, I also tend to have a short fuse when provoked. I feel myself getting mad, so I just stand up, take off the apron, and grab my coat.)

Hairdresser: “What are you doing?”

Me: *mad, but trying to maintain a civil tone* “I came in to pay to get my hair cut the way I like it. Whether you like my taste or not doesn’t really matter here; you can’t just refuse to do what I asked. Here’s the money, and bye.”

(She tried to stammer something, but I just went outside before she could finish, cooled off for a bit, then went to a new place I knew of about two minutes away. There were two girls around my age working there, and we all had a laugh when I told them why I’d seemed so pissed upon entering. They also actually did my hair the way I wanted them to. I’ve been their regular since.)

Related:

The Salon Doesn’t Make The Cut

(I work as a secretary for a fairly high-end salon.)

Me: “[Salon], how may I help you?”

Caller: “Yes, I think I missed a call from your number and wanted to call you back and make sure.”

Me: *hasn’t made any outgoing calls* “No, ma’am, but if you would tell me the reason for your call, perhaps I could help?”

Caller: “Oh, no! I’ll wait! You can call me back.”

Me: “But, ma’am…”

Caller: “It’s okay. You can call me back.”

Me: *flabbergasted* “Okay. Goodbye.”

(I learned later that this woman made four of these calls, and all she really wanted was to reschedule her appointment, which I could have done if she had said anything.)

(I’m sitting at the hairdresser, getting my color done. The colorist is young, new and nervous, so I’m trying to help by not moving my head and sitting really straight. But my back starts to hurt in their plastic chair.)

Me: “Excuse me, I just need to change position for a minute.”

Colorist: “Why? Is it tiring to do nothing?”