Saturday, April 23, 2005
A Hair Raising Experience
There's some serious drama going down at the place I get my hair cut.
Now I have to admit that I'm generally pretty much all business when it comes to the trim. I have boy hair that should really take no more than five minutes to cut, so I prefer to get things done without having to devote an extra twenty minutes to a thrilling discussion of that thing your kid did last week or the implications of our nation's gun control laws. I used to have things pretty well worked out with my most favorite haircut lady, Rose, but then she went and got herself deported, and I'm back on the market. People never really think about the innocent victims of illegal immigration, do they?
So anyway, the new lady I was trying out this week was a bit of a talker. And not just the kind who's content to ramble on about the play she tried out for or the trigonometry class she's taking over at the local cc. She wanted details about my life -- my relationship with my parents, my career ambitions, any distinctive or unusual sexual proclivities I may have -- stuff I just don't feel I should share within the first ten minutes of knowing a person. And as if that weren't enough, about halfway through she launched into a loud diatribe about her coworker at the shop, who happened to be no more than ten feet away. I really thought there might be a clippers fight. I was ready to drop to my knees and cover my hair.
But apparently the coworker felt the better approach to things would be merely to wait until my haircut was finished and then confront me in the parking lot wildly waving a Grape Crush. I'm not going to relay the exact content of our conversation, but let's just say it involved some unfavorable comparisons between my almost-new-hair-lady and certain less attractive members of the animal kingdom. The bottom line is that I need a new hair place, or a tranquilizer gun.
There's some serious drama going down at the place I get my hair cut.
Now I have to admit that I'm generally pretty much all business when it comes to the trim. I have boy hair that should really take no more than five minutes to cut, so I prefer to get things done without having to devote an extra twenty minutes to a thrilling discussion of that thing your kid did last week or the implications of our nation's gun control laws. I used to have things pretty well worked out with my most favorite haircut lady, Rose, but then she went and got herself deported, and I'm back on the market. People never really think about the innocent victims of illegal immigration, do they?
So anyway, the new lady I was trying out this week was a bit of a talker. And not just the kind who's content to ramble on about the play she tried out for or the trigonometry class she's taking over at the local cc. She wanted details about my life -- my relationship with my parents, my career ambitions, any distinctive or unusual sexual proclivities I may have -- stuff I just don't feel I should share within the first ten minutes of knowing a person. And as if that weren't enough, about halfway through she launched into a loud diatribe about her coworker at the shop, who happened to be no more than ten feet away. I really thought there might be a clippers fight. I was ready to drop to my knees and cover my hair.
But apparently the coworker felt the better approach to things would be merely to wait until my haircut was finished and then confront me in the parking lot wildly waving a Grape Crush. I'm not going to relay the exact content of our conversation, but let's just say it involved some unfavorable comparisons between my almost-new-hair-lady and certain less attractive members of the animal kingdom. The bottom line is that I need a new hair place, or a tranquilizer gun.
