Snip
Today I got a much-needed haircut at one of those national-chain haircut places.
(Sidebar: yes; I'm a bad person; I'm putting honest, local barbers out of business with my capricious—and it really was rather capricious—visits to these chain cutteries of hair; in fact, I bought a locally grown, salmonella-free tomato out of remorse; no really! [no, not really; but I should! soon!])
Lindy, as we shall call her, was very nice and conversational, if insistent that YES SHE WILL TRIM MY BEARD, PLEASE LET ME, DEAR GOD, CAVEMAN, PLEASE.
I submitted to her will, with the caveat that she not touch the 'stache, as I am growing it out for an untold number of upcoming covert operations wherein I'm disguised as Jamie, of Mythbusters fame, or perhaps as an imprisoned walrus, who's nonetheless highly entertaining.
Lindy and I chatted a bit about what I did (stuff, junk, lasers, play in some bands), and why on earth had I amassed a skull-borne halo of nappy brown curls to complement my Viking mustache.
Oh, yes, Vikings. Lindy told me I was likely of Viking stock, because the mustache and goatee portions of my facial hair showed strong red and blonde influence, against the brunette tendencies of my other beard hairs.
I have no idea of the veracity of these claims, but she had deemed me a Viking, and a Viking I was for the moment. Fucking fuck off, motherfuckers.
After the trim, she insisted on washing my hair—after all, "you're only going to go to band practice and sweat, as you said, and all those little hairs are going to be all itchy."
Color me convinced.
My only gripe: why does my head look so small now?! (Oh, and thanks, Bayleaf, for pointing that out.)
(Sidebar: yes; I'm a bad person; I'm putting honest, local barbers out of business with my capricious—and it really was rather capricious—visits to these chain cutteries of hair; in fact, I bought a locally grown, salmonella-free tomato out of remorse; no really! [no, not really; but I should! soon!])
Lindy, as we shall call her, was very nice and conversational, if insistent that YES SHE WILL TRIM MY BEARD, PLEASE LET ME, DEAR GOD, CAVEMAN, PLEASE.
I submitted to her will, with the caveat that she not touch the 'stache, as I am growing it out for an untold number of upcoming covert operations wherein I'm disguised as Jamie, of Mythbusters fame, or perhaps as an imprisoned walrus, who's nonetheless highly entertaining.
Lindy and I chatted a bit about what I did (stuff, junk, lasers, play in some bands), and why on earth had I amassed a skull-borne halo of nappy brown curls to complement my Viking mustache.
Oh, yes, Vikings. Lindy told me I was likely of Viking stock, because the mustache and goatee portions of my facial hair showed strong red and blonde influence, against the brunette tendencies of my other beard hairs.
I have no idea of the veracity of these claims, but she had deemed me a Viking, and a Viking I was for the moment. Fucking fuck off, motherfuckers.
After the trim, she insisted on washing my hair—after all, "you're only going to go to band practice and sweat, as you said, and all those little hairs are going to be all itchy."
Color me convinced.
My only gripe: why does my head look so small now?! (Oh, and thanks, Bayleaf, for pointing that out.)
posted by Stanley at 23:23
6 Comments:
Mmm...nothing beats a shampoo. Except when they do a hot shave and then a shoulder massage. That, my friend, is heaven. And only $30,000 pesos (including an alcoholic beverage of your choice) on Avenida Calle 72, Chapinero, Bogotá D.C.
so where's the picture of your small head?
Oh, shoot, my mistake, andrea. Here ya go.
Nice -- I like how you plucked your eyebrows, too.
I keep trying to get myself to go to a cheap haircut chain instead of spending too much money on haircuts, but I'm terrified I'll get an awful cut.
I spent $95 fucking dollars on a cut and color yesterday. Gah.
i have a mohawk
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