Perchance the hair-cutting experience is different for a dame. (That's right, I said dame because I'm feeling like Sinatra.) I've just found that it's just a hair's breadth---hehe---away from the agony of the dentist, sitting in that leather chair upholstered with metal buttons. It's more like a medieval instrument of torture than a hair styling implement. "Yes sir, would you like the draw and quarter or a shampoo today?"
Today, when I was buzzed Gomer Pyle instead of Brad Pitt, I felt more like a sheep than a sado-masochistic experiment gone horribly wrong. My problem? I can't decide which is more harrowing. There I sat, tufts of my salt and pepper locks whipping around me, forlornly parted from my crown and drifting down the slope of my slippery dark-olive smock, almost waving farewell. Meanwhile, I'm trying nervously to keep from catching my hairdo in an open eyeball and simultaneously maintaining my head in a planar rectitude so that I don't have a lopsided flat-top come the end of the shearing. Throughout these complex and subtle manuevers I'm finding myself hypnotized by the stylist's? (is barber PC anymore?) frantic pace so that come the end of the shearing I really don't recall what happened. In fact, the only signal I have that the nightmare is over is a mirror w/ a neon lavender handle being thrust in my hand. This is the portion of horror films where the audience either yells or whispers to themselves "Don't open that door! Don't go in the room! Don't take your clothes off!" Fortunately in this instance the haircut manages to mask the oblong thrust of my melon toward the back and also avoids the mushroom-cloud formation. Kudos! So I gave the lady a $2 tip. Yay.
Someday I'll have to share the story of my experience with the Von Curtis Academy and the student with a bloody eye. We'll call her One-eye Wanda. She runs a chicken joint and a voodoo lounge.