I’m now solidly into my third year of giving myself haircuts rather than trusting someone else to not give me a communicable disease while trying to cut my hair, much less kill me under the guise of giving me a haircut.
I didn’t even know there was a thing called Sweeney Todd until I sat down and watched it with the Wife a few years before COVID struck:
I had waited long enough to watch it by that point. It starred Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter, I really did need to see it even if the subject matter itself made me want to run away and hide. I don’t remember a thing about that movie. Not one moment aside from the blood shooting everywhere in a couple of scenes.
I can still remember how the barber in my hometown used to love to torment me with the buzzing clippers. I never got used to other people touching my hair, much less letting them near me with a straight razor. The one time a barber used one on me it was all I could do to stop myself from running away from the man who was just trying to clean up my hairline. Then I became aware that Sweeney Todd was a thing. Now I can’t stop thinking about him when I think about letting someone else cut my hair.
Yes, I screwed up my sideburns again. At least I won’t cut my own throat with the clippers.
