bad hairday

I had my hair done last night in one of the barber shops near our apartment. You see, my hair has its own life. It grows in a way it sees fit. It's uncontrolable. Funny thing is that the barber kept on asking me what I would want him to do with it (the hair). It's as if he didn't have any idea, and was propably thinking that nothing can save me from it (the hair). So I told him what I wanted (how I wanted it to be). While he was doing my hair, I can see, on the look on his face, that he was having a hard time, and that he's a bit skeptical about the whole thing. It scared me.

Now I look like (or my hair looks like that of) Javier Bardem in the movie No Country for Old Men (only mine is worse).