In prison you have two options for a haircut: you can either trust one of the prison barbers to try to cut your hair to your preference with clippers, or you can break a razor, insert the blade into a comb, and get someone in the dorm to try and match your vision for a haircut. Either way you end up with someone inexperienced who usually makes you want to shave it all off in the end. The only difference is that, if you go with someone in the dorm, you can hold them accountable with some friendly ridicule (hey, you're just passing on what will surely come your way) and a promise to never return for his sub-par services.
Today I chose to go with the dorm option. I asked around to see if anyone was at least mildly capable of cutting hair. It came down to Blue, the spazzy guy who caught the mouse. I sat in the bathroom, not knowing what to expect. when the hair began falling to the floor.
When the damage was done Blue put the comb down and asked me for my opinion. I looked in the mirror and, to my surprise, saw a handsome guy with two black eyes and a great haircut. Not quite GQ material but, as I say, prison is not a fashion show. Later that night I thanked Blue with a dinner of Ramen, chili, corn ships, and jalapeno suace, a veritable gourmet prison dinner.
*Cowboy proverb
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