At what point did recession receive such a negative connotation?

As a child, “recess” always meant a break from fractions, kicking Solange Knowles’ ass at four square and frolicking around during ozone days.

Somewhere between fifth grade and the beginning of a receding hairline, I find myself, along with the rest of America, grappling with the reality of a recession that is a little too close to (town)home.

No, I do not have a foreclosed mortgage, plummeting 401k (whatever that is), or hungry children to feed (the bunny has taken to the mint on the patio, and the girls love it). However, mere months ago, I did have to face the treacherous task of graduating from college, and supposedly, supporting myself in a mired economic climate.

My parents’ credit card was no longer available for school supplies (read: New kicks from Nordstrom, study sessions at Anvil and “family planning” essentials). As I crossed the stage on commencement day, a flurry of questions passed through my mind:

“Will this recesh ever be over?”

“When is my reservation at Dolce Vita?”

“Am I supposed to get a job?”

Once the graduation festivities ended, I came to the realization that I was officially poor. I dispatched a flood of résumés to anywhere that was hiring, and ended up with a quilted schedule of part-time jobs and freelance gigs. Of all those lingering quandaries dating from commencement, one stuck with me: On an unexpectedly low income, where am I to get my hair done?

It was not so long ago that I would waltz into Lot 8 Salon and pay top dollar to sit pretty and sip Pellegrino. My stylist, Suki, would update me on the latest Ting Tings show, followed by our usual debate over the best times to visit Miami. If she were ever out of town, I would schlep to Quay in Tanglewood, where Ritz would pour me a glass of the Cab she had just brought back from South Africa and fill me in on the comings and goings of my ex.

I knew these days were officially over one Tuesday after work, as I pulled into the parking lot of a TGF Haircutters on Montrose.

I wonder what “TGF” could even stand for – “That’s Goddamn Fugly”, “The Greedy Frugalisto”, “The Great F***-Up”. I noticed a poster along the window stating that Tuesdays are a ten-dollar special for men’s haircuts. Normally I associate after-work Tuesday specials with Long Islands at the Marquis II, and indeed reading this offer brings about a similar queasiness to one induced by a blend of bottom-shelf liquor.

What provoked even greater apprehension was an older man loitering outside the door, chain-smoking and giving passing pedestrians the good eye. He was wearing a faded muscle T-shirt and hocked a loogie in my path. As I walked past, I noticed that this shady fellow featured an unfortunately rough face. I gasped and ran inside.

While flipping through a 2005 back issue of Esquire, I heard my name called out in a scratchy voice. I looked up to realize that the strange figure from outside would in fact be cutting my hair. On that particular Tuesday, TGF for me stood for “This Grody Face.”

I sat down at This Grody Face’s station, which was plastered in photos of a bygone era. I would want to relive having a head of hair as lush as Zack Morris' too, I suppose. I allowed my mind to wander to 1990s after-school specials, and before I knew it, TGF had chopped off almost the entirety of my hair. With Depeche Mode’s Personal Jesus blasting on the salon stereo, it occured to me that TGF was making me in the image of himself. In a dramatic sweep, I stood up before he could finish clipping away with those rusty scissors, flung my smock on the floor, tossed back my head as if I still had hair, and hurled a crumpled Alexander Hamilton at the front desk.

With no money left for triple-crème cheeses and a hairless scalp, I looked like a scrawny mess. The reactions were mixed: “You look like a seven-year-old.” “Very Demi Moore circa 1997.” “That’s so Auschwitz.” My favorite was a few weeks later, while describing the experience on a first date. Even at the beginning of the story, the guy interrupted, “Oh, I know the one you’re talking about. The one… with the grody face.”

The plus side of traumatically stunted hair is that you can wait forever to revisit the situation. It was not until a few months later that I chose to seek out a new stylist.

“Why don’t you call my bastard cousin, Evelyn? She’s the best,” suggests my housemate.

Indeed, Evelyn was a bit of a wayward soul who had missed out on her century-old Baker Botts inheritance. I had first met Evelyn at a friend’s party in a questionable home off of OST, somewhere between the Third Ward and South Houston. It was the summer of 2007 and ever the trend-follower, Evelyn had shaven her head to mimic the avant garde look of Britney Spears. I remember sitting around a tree stump coffee table in a living room with avocado shag carpeting and dark wood paneled walls covered in “R.I.P.” posters of DJ Screw. Evelyn walked in on this opium den, arbitrarily sat next to me, and began to rattle off stories of how she was kicked out of every high school in the O.C. I plainly nodded my head as she raised her mammoth bong and clinked it against my Heineken mini-keg. “Cheers!”

Needless to say, I was wary of allowing Evelyn access to my hair, but before I knew it, I was texting her to seal the deal.

“hay babe - obvi ill do teh job but u should try 2 get more friends 2 come 2 the somo toho 2make it worth my wile. o and i need a curly model thnx”

Apparently Evelyn was “over” the GED and on her way out of beauty school, subsidized by cheap house calls given to friends. I wrangled five other destitute besties and invited them over for a trashy Saturday night of haircuts, dye-jobs and CVS-brand rosé. Evelyn arrived two hours late, jet-black hair now fully replenished. She was on her second Beefeater and tonic before she realized that she had left her scissors at home. Two hours later, having completed a My So-Called Life Angela Chase-style coloring and conquered her curly-haired model, I found myself sitting on my patio surrounded by heaps of hair and citronella candles.

“I’m going to go ahead and give you what I call ‘The 90s Disconnect’. Oh my gawd you’re going to look to-die.”

Evelyn moved on to stories of the times since we had last met (“I’ve slept around A LOT.”) and how she chose not to go to university (“I hate school because it is shit shit shit!”). But soon, Evelyn moved on to accounts of finding a passion in cosmetology and meeting a guy who makes her want to stay a little more in one place. Remarked Evelyn, “I know the economy’s in the gutter. But I love what I’m doing.” I was almost inspired by Evelyn’s new life—until I realized that I was getting a haircut at 2 a.m., at which point I asked her wrap things up.

I brushed off my shoulders and marched to the powder room to check out my new 'do. Staring in the mirror, I reveled in my new '90s Disconnect, having realized my Zack Morris dreams. I air-kissed Evelyn, pinned on my rhinestone “LET'S DANCE” Harwin gem, and made my way out into the streets of SoMo, fully confident that I am indeed totes over the recesh.