Hell.

If you're ever in the mood for a mind-bendingly horrible experience, because you want to treat yourself like shit, I recommend that you visit the Supercuts on Red and Sunset on a Sunday afternoon, when you have a fierce hangover.

I mean, who among us doesn't like a little agony every now and then? I know there are some days when I wake up and say, "Self," I says, "Where is one of the last places you should go today? To Supercuts!"

And then I do.

Now, I had to get a haircut today because I have that call-back interview tomorrow morning. I hope I'm not still hungover when I go...

So it's not like I had much of a choice. I had to get a haircut today. I didn't get one yesterday, because... I forgot.

Oops.

So, I dragged my booze-reeking self down into the madness that is the Red-Sunset junction. Usually, I like to get my hair cut at Larry's Barbershop. But they're closed on Sundays. And I didn't want to drive up to the Haircuttery on Miracle Mile, because...I think driving with a hangover is way more dangerous than driving drunk.

SO, I settled. Which is always a bad move. Not to mention the fact that I have NEVER. EVER. EVER. walked out of that Supercuts with a good haircut.

Ever.

So, I slink in and put in my name, and sit on a booth along the wall. On the end. No big deal, right? I'll just read a magazine and keep to myself.

WRONG.

Some dreadful little hyperactive girl with those goddamn rollerskate shoes was skidding across the floor thudding into things and moving way more than I would have liked. She ran around, bouncing off the walls (literally) and doing flips on the little railings that divide the waiting area from the "studio."

Then, sweet relief, her father's haircut is done and she leaves. And it's finally quieter and still in the store.

Until some family with twelve kids tromps in. And of COURSE they sit near me.

Now, mind you. I'm on the end of a booth, and I'm ...

know what? I'm too hungover to write. Here's the punchline, stupid mustachio'ed father looks at me and, like I've done something wrong by NOT moving out of the way for them, says, "SIR, WE'RE A FAMILY. CAN YOU PLEASE MOVE DOWN SO WE CAN ALL SIT TOGETHER."

So I give him the look of death and scootch over an inch.

I'd fill in the rest of the story, but I don't care.

Then the dumb bitch who cut my hair did a terrible job, and spent most of the time I was in the chair, gesturing with the clippers to her freakshow co-worker at the next chair over, the one who was wearing jeans with intentional brown streaks on her butt cheeks. I ask you, who designs a jean with two dirty brown patches on the ass? She looked like she shat herself.

Ugh. It was truly horrible. If I didn't feel so godawful, I'd keep going, and give you the flavor for the whole experience, which, trust me, was bad.

But fuck that noise.