I got my hair cut this morning, since there’s so much shit going on this weekend. The girl who cut it was kind of new, said she’s been working there for about a month now, and she’s only, like, twenty-two. She asked me how I wanted it cut, and I explained that I usually have clippers with a four-guard for the sides of my head, and then they use scissors to cut the top. She’s really nice, we’re talking, she uses the clippers to shorten the sides of my hair. Then I feel the razor cut right down the top-center of my head. I stop mid-sentence, confused. Did she just . . . ? I think.

She pauses, tensing slightly. “Did you want the clippers for your whole head, or just the sides?”

“Umm . . . just the sides.”

“Shit,” she mutters under her breath.

She proceeds to apologize profusely. I said it was no big deal, ’cause it really wasn’t and she was pretty upset. She then uses the clippers on the rest of my hair, since it would just look strange if she didn’t, and I get my haircut for free. It doesn’t really look that bad, just a lot different from what I’m used to. It’s just hair; it’ll grow back in six weeks or so. In the mean time, I don’t have to do shit to it in the mornings at least.

And as a bonus, all day I’ve been able to tell people that I decided to go for the trendy Hollywood look, like Brad Pitt, thus garnering some odd looks. It’s been fun.

JAB