The 2-for-1 Haircut
A few months ago we loaded up Jedd's Geo GL (which we think stands for Gullible Losers) and headed for our sister church up in North Dakota, the Church of the Frozen Tundra. This isn't its real name, of course, but we gave it this moniker after our first couple of visits there because (1) North Dakota has tundra, and (2) much of said tundra is frozen (as are many other things in North Dakota).
We always look forward to visiting COFT and speaking to the congregation there. They seem to like us, probably because they have to put up with us only once or twice a year. Also, North Dakota is cool. Its capital is Bismarck, making it the only state in the Union with a capital named after a pastry.
As we drove, we discussed topics we might share with our brethren and sistren—and the jokes we might use. (In past visits, we found we could earn robust laughter by making fun of South Dakota.)
We pulled into a truck stop near Minot to get a snack. As we strolled to the entrance, we looked inside the establishment, which was creatively named Al's Truck Stop, and noticed two scraggly strangers inside.
"Look at those guys," Todd commented. "Haven't they heard of that great invention, the comb?"
"I don't even know if one could pull a comb through those unruly mops," Jedd noted. "When was the last time those guys got a haircut, the Carter Administration?"
"Maybe they're Nazirites," Todd offered. "Like Samson."
"I doubt it," Jedd countered. "Look at how gangly they are. They aren't strong like Samson. Delilah could whup the both of them."
"You're probably right," Todd said. "Hey, look, Jedd, one of those scrawny dudes has a Broncos jacket just like yours."
"And one of them is wearing tired old gray Kmart sweats like yours."
That's when it hit us like a big North Dakota snowball. We had met the ragamuffins, and they were us (or is it "we were they"?). We were seeing our own unkempt reflections in the truck-stop window.
"Does our hair really look that bad?" Jedd asked rhetorically.
"I'm afraid so. Truck-stop windows don't lie."
At this point we did some mental retracing and deduced that we hadn't received haircuts in about four months, when we were scheduled to be on a local TV show. (We ended up getting bumped in favor of a guy who bought a half-eaten sandwich on eBay for six hundred dollars. The other half of the sandwich had been eaten by Celine Dion, or maybe it was Deion Sanders, or perhaps Dionne Warwick. It could have been Dion of Dion & the Belmonts. In any case, the discarded food of any of those celebrities was apparently more interesting than the Brothers Hafer.)
Anyway, our heads now looked like mop tops. And not fashionable mop tops like those of the Beatles. Ours were more like stringy, unruly mops that are used to clean prison rest rooms. We knew we could not face the members of our sister church like this. It would be a poor way to represent our home church. It would show a lack of moral character. Besides, the North Dakota teens would make fun of us.
As we entered downtown Minot we strained our eyes, looking for someplace that would bring order to the chaos atop our heads—for under ten bucks, if possible. We saw a couple of high-end salons, Shear Excellence and some other fancy-looking French-looking place called Tressed to Kill (or maybe it was Turn Your Head and Coif). We knew these businesses were for people beyond our social strata and income level. (You have to beware any time you see a hair salon with a sign noting FINANCING AVAILABLE.)
We were growing desperate when we saw Kustom Kutz. We smiled at each other. Places that don't know how to spell are typically quite economical. Beyond economical, in this case. As we pulled into the KK parking lot, we saw a hand-lettered sign in the window. It read, WEEKEND SPECIAL: 2-FOR-1 HAIRCUTZ!
Twenty-two minutes later, we walked through piles of our own hair to the Kustom Kutz exit, feeling lighter in spirit and lighter in the head, if you know what we mean.
However, as we headed to our car, we began to eye each other suspiciously. All this suspicious eyeing provoked the following exchange:
Todd: "Is something wrong?"
Jedd: "In what way?"
Todd: "Well, you are looking at me funny."
Jedd: "I was just looking at you that way because you are looking at me funny."
Todd: "Yeah ..."
Jedd: "So, why are you doing that?"
Todd: "You first. Why are you looking at me?"
Jedd: "It's just that ..."
Todd: "Yes?"
Jedd: "Dude, you look like a doofus."
Todd: "I'm just the way God made me, bro. And God doesn't make junk."
Jedd: "That's not what I mean. I mean your hair. Your haircut makes you look like a doofus."
Todd: "Well, so does yours!"
Jedd: "Oh, that's great! Get all defensive, why don't you? You're the older brother. You're supposed to be the mature one."
Todd: "No, I'm not being defensive. You do indeed have a problem with your hair. It looks like somebody turned a hungry badger loose on your head."
Jedd: "Are you serious? That is the same thing I was thinking about you! Only I was going to say enraged ferret instead of hungry badger."
Todd: "Well, six of one ..."
Jedd: "Didn't you notice how your Kustom Kutz stylist was mangling your hair? Didn't you look in the mirror? You do indeed have a problem with your hair. It looks like somebody turned a hungry badger loose on your head."
Todd: "Well, no. I was too busy watching your Kustom Kutz stylist do a weed-whacker number on you. Besides, your lady looked like Alice from The Brady Bunch. So I was kinda distracted by that. But hey, why weren't you minding your appearance?"
Jedd: "For the same reason as yours. Only your stylist looked like Sam the Butcher from The Brady Bunch."
Todd: "She did?"
Jedd: "She did indeed."
We reached our car, we studied our reflections in its window, and we panicked. Then we looked at our watches and panicked even more. We had precisely twenty-eight minutes before we were due to entertain and edify a church auditorium full of eager North Dakotans.
Now, you might think that a couple of funny-boys could squeeze gallons of laughter out of a bad-haircut saga like this. But these haircuts weren't bad-funny. They were bad-ghastly. They were prison-camp bad and Pauly Shore unfunny.
We knew that we could not face the believers of COFT in this state. So, following the urging of that wise man Carrot Top, we dialed down the center of a pay phone and called our friend G-Dawg in Los Angeles. He's in the entertainment industry, he's cool, he's unflappable, and he's one of the few people in the country who will accept a collect call from the Brothers Hafer.
We explained our dilemma, both yakking into the phone at the same time. After we finished kvetching, he paused a few moments. Then, in a soothing, measured tone, he said, "Dudes, I have the solution. All you have to do is shave your heads."
We protested furiously. We told G-Dawg we would feel naked without our hair. We told him we feared that if we relinquished our locks, they might never grow back. We told him it would be a hot winter in North Dakota before we would ever shave our heads.
He let us vent. Then he said, "I understand your reservations. But shaved heads are in. Look at Michael Jordan. Look at Bruce Willis. Look at Charles Barkley. Look at Sinead O'Connor."
"Sinead O'Connor?!" we screamed in unison.
"Okay, okay," G-Dawg said. "Don't look at her. But do look at the other guys. They look smooth. They look confident. They save money on shampoo. Power-bald, dudes—it's the look of the future."
The call ended. We knew Mr. Dawg was right. No hair at all had to be better than the hair we were sporting. Besides, the whole Jordan/Willis/Barkley thing was working on us. On the way to the drugstore to purchase a couple of heavy-duty Bic shavers, we took turns naming more cool bald icons: Savalas, Picasso, Connery, Moby (the musician, not the whale).
We zipped into a YMCA and stood before a wall of mirrors, where we proceeded to free our respective noggins of the atrocious 2-for-1 hair butchering. We smiled as we thought of our friend's wise counsel. We wondered whom we would resemble most when we were done—basketball stars or movie action heroes?
We toweled remnant patches of shaving cream off our domes and gazed eagerly at our reflections.
We looked like two scrawny sons of Uncle Fester.
Some people look cool bald. But those people have symmetrically shaped heads that have seen the light of the sun. Our heads looked like hard-boiled eggs that had been peeled, then beaten with a small ball peen hammer.
The congregation at COFT stared at us that evening with looks of shock and pity. It was especially embarrassing to be up there not only bald but with heads dotted with tiny pieces of blood-stained toilet paper.
The whole thing was excruciatingly uncomfortable, but we did get a record-size love offering.
We drove out of Minot that evening. (We didn't get the usual invitation to stay overnight with one of the church families. We learned later that most of them were afraid we would give their children—or their pets—nightmares.) We left filled with embarrassment and despair. Embarrassment over the pasty-domed spectacles we had made of ourselves. Despair over the prospect of having to do gig after gig with our new maimed Uncle Fester look.
How long will it take for our hair to grow back? we wondered. More importantly, how long would it take for our dignity to grow back?
As we neared the North Dakota state line, God must have decided to smile on us or at least wink at us. Because on a large sign outside a gift shop/gas station, we read the words that would cover our present humiliation and protect us from the potential rogue barbarian shops we might encounter in the future. The sign proclaimed: WEEKEND SPECIAL: 2-FOR-1 BASEBALL KAPZ!
Excerpted from Mischief from the Back Pew by Todd & Jedd Hafer. Copyright © 2003. Published by Bethany House Publishers. Used by permission. Unauthorized duplication prohibited.
Todd Hafer is an award-winning writer with 19 published books. Jedd is a comedian and speaker who has appeared all over the country. They have coauthored three other books including Stranger in the Chat Room.
Originally published November 26, 2003.
