|Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before|
Thursday, August 24, 2006
As I have talked about before, I hate getting my hair cut. Today's cutter wasn't a talker, so I was happy about that. She just asked the usual questions and I mumbled the usual, "Not too short, mumble mumble mumbly joe, don't fuck it up, please."
She did a fine job. I might even go back. I am like a one night stand for hair cutters. I rarely go to the same person twice. I used to go to this chick in Florida that I liked. Her place was named Clip and Dale's. It had no ties to Disney and no one there was named Dale or Clip and no sexy men shoved their junk in my face. And this lady was a nut. She was a talker, but she could cut a good head. I once cut my hair when I was drunk, then went to her a couple of days later to fix it up, told her I cut my own hair, and she told me I did a good job. So I thought for a minute I'd open up a drunk barber shop.
Anyway, today's chick at the end of my clipping asked how I would like the back. You know, the hairline at the neck. My choices are straight across or rounded, I think. I always go with straight across. Today I almost said, "Can you write 'fuck' in it? Or if you are uncomfortable with that, can you carve out two donkeys making love beneath a sunset? Or just straight across, if that's easiest." But I didn't say that. I said, "Straight across."
Oh, haircuts, how I love you so.
You know what else I love? Cash Cab. What a great fucking show. I want to be in that damn cab so bad.