When I die, I think the title of this blog will be etched on my headstone. I went to get my haircut because I was a quarter inch of hair length away from looking homeless. I’m OK with that, but I was getting close to mullet/ponytail zone and that just can’t happen in 2016. Or ever.
The lady that cut my hair yesterday was a little eccentric. No, I don’t go to the same place, I have man parts so I go wherever is closest that doesn’t have a line. My wife drives 90 minutes and wouldn’t go anywhere else if you threatened to waterboard her, as does nearly every woman I’ve met. I had my buddies do it free until the guard fell off once and I had a reverse mohawk. That’s too much risk post-college.
I don’t know if she was foreign, but her accent was a little off. “You want to not look like shaggy wolf so your missus lets you in home?” Um, sure. I wouldn’t word it like that, but sure. Make me look less like Tyrion Lannister with a beard, how about that? Somehow the conversation turned to high school, which was weird because I wasn’t really talking. “No one asked me to prom. I was too drabby.” I don’t know what that means, but I think I can figure it out now. I didn’t really know what to say. Sorry? No, I’m not really. Hell with that, drabby is the new cool, whatever that word means. Nope. So I did what I do best. I stared into the floor in a nearly catatonic state and then murmured, “It’s supposed to get cold tomorrow.” There was a pause. “I think we’re coming out of an Ice Age and polluting the Earth with pollution.” Sigh. I’ll just shave my head next time.