Monday, February 27, 2012

That Time A Chimpanzee Trimmed My Hair

Well, Fall Out Boy came on the radio this morning as I sipped my free Dunkin Donuts iced coffee, so I guess this Monday started out peachy.  Although, somehow I'm just incredibly grouchy about things I just can't seem to leave in last week.  Mainly, I'm talking about my Fringe Banking class and this horrendous haircut I got yesterday.  This means that every little thing today is bugging the ever-living crap out of me.  For example, the fact that everyone at work today is mumbling at me.  I just want to grab their faces and move their mouths with my hands while yelling "ENUNCIATE!" 

So, my first rant is this class I'm taking.  I'm an overachiever for even taking it in the first place.  It's one of those upper-level elective classes with 15 people in the course and everything is discussion and group work.  Of course, my randomly assigned group places me with two freshmen who have no idea how to write a book report, let alone a technical paper.  Not to mention this professor we have is the most nit-picky person ever.  Like he's really going to take off 13 points because he didn't like the fact that I used a bar graph instead of a chart to display info.  Dick move right there.  My group has consistently gotten Bs on all of our projects, which, did I mention, are due almost every week?  Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they could actually do research on their own without using Wikipedia.  How did you get into college again?  I despise group work, as I've mentioned before.  Almost as much as I despise Socialism. 

Secondly, this haircut.  What the hell was I thinking, going to SuperCuts in the first place.  Well, I thought that if I told them exactly what I wanted, they couldn't really mess it up.  Boy, was I wrong.  Apparently a trim means 3 inches off my hair.  I doubt this woman even had a cosmetology license, considering she had no clue what "pivoting concave layers" were.  It's a textbook term that you learn in beauty school when you learn the basics of cutting.  That should have been my red flag to book it out of there.  Or maybe I should have just ran out of the chair screaming when she made a face that clearly said "oh-crap-I-screwed-this-up" and then attempted to cover her incompetent ass by telling me my layers were cut wrong in the first place.  Excuse me, Ma'am, but I normally get my hair done at Paul Mitchel, and I actually think a chimpanzee could trim hair better than you're doing right now. 

Obviously, I called back and complained and was told I'd be given a refund... however, I have to do so during times that are convenient for them.  Obnoxious.  They even offered to fix it for me.  Oh, sorry, I already look like a homeless crack addict had at my hair with a pair of yard shears, but sure, I trust you to "fix" it.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go put six thousand bobby pins in my hair to hide these hack-marks and attempt to research regulations on alternative financial service providers in New Jersey. 


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