I was 5 years old when I had my first heartbreak.

The pain was so severe, I never thought I would be able to trust anybody again.

"How could you break someone's heart so easily? How can anybody do this?" I asked myself crying my eyes out.

Who knew that a trip to the local barber, would end up in such a tragedy?

Source: seekers

As a kid growing up on a steady diet of movies, I had high hopes for my fashion sense.

Which is why, every time my barber asked me "Kaisa style chahiye?", I used to tell him all my dil ke armaan.

Source: uber humor

Depending on the actor I was idolising at that point in time, I would painstakingly and in great details, describe to my barber the look I was going for.

And he listened patiently, assuring me that he understood what my heart desired.

And then he would work really hard... TO RUIN EVERYTHING.

You see, the problem was that somehow, without fail, managed to over-promise and then under-deliver.

I can still remember that greasy patronising tone of his, when he'd tell me:

"Aise kaatoonga, ki spikes bhi ho jaayenge, mushroom cut bhi lagenge aur centre parting bhi ho jaayegi."

And I, a naive little kid, used to believe every word of his.

Baal katwaane jaata tha, aur apna chu*iya katwa ke aa jaata tha.

Source: YRF

Instead of a mushroom cut, I'd be left with a katora cut.

I'd literally have to pull my hair to make four strands of them stand.

And a centre parting used to look like a tributary was flowing through my head.

My point was ki bhai tujhse nahin ho raha toh tu jhoote waade toh mat kar.

Why would you promise me all that coolness and then make me look like this?

Source: Goldmines

And you know what the worst part was?

That I wear glasses.

Which meant, that I had to take them off before a haircut.

Which also meant, that I couldn't see what shit he was doing to my head.

Which is why, I could only see the permanent damage once it had already been done.

Damnit.

And aisa nahin hai ki ab mujhe akal aa gayi hai.

Till date, every time I go to a hair dresser, he somehow manages to fuck things up for me.

It feels like someone pays him to do that. Man, if I'm telling you a certain style I want, why is it so difficult for you to follow?

If I want you to keep the upper length long, why would you trim it?

And to add insult to injury, you tell me ways in which I can make that style at home.

"Bas thoda sa tel lena, usmein thoda sa paani milana, aur aise (pulls the fuck out of my hair) poore sar pe laga lena" he would say.

So screw you, man. Seriously, screw you. And do the world a favour, just quit your job.