The last time I checked, an inch is 2.54 cm, it is not "whatever the hell you feel like cutting off". I know there are no hash marks on your stubby fingers; but come on. Inches are everywhere. Obviously I don't expect you to be perfect, but when I say an inch, and you give me a 4th grade summer buzz cut then we have a problem. This isn't Play-Doh Mop Top Hair Shop, you can't just cut away and expect some new hair to shoot out of my head. This is real hair, on a real person and it takes a long f*cking time to grow back.

Please do not make small talk:

You've made it pretty clear already, you don't giving a flying fuck about my physical appearance, why the hell would I want to talk to you about my plans for the weekend? I'll tell you what I'm doing this weekend, I'm probably making a 3 hour drive back home to my moms hair dresser to try and fix this disaster you call a hair cut. The last thing I want to do is talk to you and further distract you while you continue to butcher my hair. No I don't care about your 10 cats, no I don't care about your god forsaken kids and no I don't care that your husbands probably cheating on you. All I care about is the fact that you are in the process of giving me a chilli bowl and I'm too much of a pussy to confront you about it.

Of course I want side burns:

As this haircut from hell is finally coming to end you go off and do the unthinkable. You proceed to chop off the only natural looking thing I have left going for me … my sideburns. You presumptuous bitch! How dare you! As if you haven't made me look like an asshole enough, you go and turn me into an asshole with no sideburns. That's it. I'm getting out of here before you shave a Nike swoosh in the back of my head.