Driving through Southeast Portland last week, an almost ineffable feeling hit me. It was initially a slight irritation, growing more persistent as the minutes crawled on. Annoyance soon gave way to quiet desperation. Eventually, I could ignore it no longer. Okay, I know this lead-up might be giving some of you false hope that I’m describing the need to take a dump, but you can put your disappointment away — it’s not. Besides, there’s a ton of BM-centric blogs on the internet for you to get your jollies. Now, let me preface this by mentioning that we all have little quirks. “Quirks,” of course, being the code word for shit you’re weird about, like not letting your food touch on the dinner plate or wearing two bathing suits when you go swimming in case one falls off, which isn’t actually that strange so just shut up. My quirk is an absolute intolerance for hair that I’ve deemed too long.

It’s intense! The closest description I can provide is that scene in “Teen Wolf” when Michael J. Fox’s character “wolfs out” for the first time and the camera gives a close-up  of his fur growing in. Well, that’s how I feel — although it actually happens gradually, with me it’s as if a switch is flipped and my hair becomes intolerably long. Oh sure, I may present a placid demeanor to the outside world, but inside I’m thrashing about in follicular hell. I turn into a quasi-heroin addict in the throes of withdrawal, scratching at my sideburns in desperation.

Needless to say, I needed to find a barber/salon/set of garden shears stat.

I was in some Godforsaken section of Portland — blissfully hipster-free, but nary a Supercuts in sight. And then I happened upon it — an oasis of hairstylery, in a nondescript storefront. The name of the establishment said it all: “Haircuts.” Plus, the price was right: $8. Now, I know many think that dropping less than $30 on a haircut is just tempting fate. But I have a pretty uncomplicated style. Why pay for a BMW when a Hyundai will get you where you’re going just fine, as the saying I just attempted to coin goes?

Taking note of the dead potted plants as I strode in, I settled myself in a well-worn barber chair, mentally patting myself on the back that my barber bargain hunting was once again about to pay off…and I didn’t even have to resort to patronizing one of those chains (or “Big Cut,” as they should be called). As a middle-aged Vietnamese woman readied me for a snip, I began to tell her how I wanted my hair. What followed was three solid minutes of me trying to breach the language barrier. I did everything short of breaking out some molding clay and forming a crude model of my desired ‘do. Now, a different person might’ve thrown their hands up and walked out. But I live by the Code of The Cheap Cut, which clearly states that when that clasp snaps, that gown is bonded to you, and you must see it through. With a sigh of resignation, the barber gestured toward the wall. Taped next to the mirror was one of those “Stars Through The Years” layouts that People magazine features periodically. This one depicted Brad Pitt’s hairstyles throughout his career.

“Pick,” she commanded.

“What?” I asked, flabbergasted.

“Choose!” She was losing patience. While her establishment may have lacked charm, this woman more than made up for it with her warm chairside manner.

“Uhhh…” I said, scanning frantically. Early, “Kalifornia”-era Brad? Too, well, awful. “Fight Club” Brad? Naw, too derivative, although it would fit the alternate reality theme of the day. Searching further, I realized that the pictures only went up to 2011. Horrified that I was even disappointed at this prospect, I pointed at 2011 Brad and settled back, too embarrassed to tell her that I really wanted the Julia Roberts 1993 pageboy that was featured on the opposite side of the mirror. I guess there could be things worse than looking like Brad Pitt trying to look like Billy Beane.

If what followed had been filmed, it would have made a great barber college instructional video of what not to do. My hair was assaulted. She grabbed, pulled, and jabbed. Oh yes, the jabbing – I get it that it can happen with scissors and clippers, but with a mirror?! That’s a trifecta you want no part of. Halfway through I just closed my eyes, half afraid to look and half wishing I was elsewhere. This was not the hill I had envisioned dying on. Finally, she was done and I opened my eyes to the conclusion of my waking nightmare.

I looked… not bad. Maybe it was because I was overjoyed that I didn’t look like Jim Carrey’s character from Dumb and Dumber, but I definitely wasn’t going to have to don a hat (or a toupe) for the next three weeks. I chastised myself for not trusting my cheap haircut compass. Sure, there was some blood on my neck. And ears. And the stress of the ordeal would incapacitate me for the rest of the day. But $8! Turns out, you can put a price on looking good.