With tomorrow being Easter and all, I decided that some grooming was in order. So I went to the hair salon. The thing that always amazes me is that the first thing a stylist asks a guy is how do you want your hair styled. Listen ladies, give it up because we men don't have the slightest idea how to answer that question. We just don't obsess that much about our hair. And it's not like we're going to ask for highlights or anything. The fella in the chair next to me gave the best answer to the question ever. He just said short. Which I guess was a lot better than my mumble about using a razor and then pointing towards the general area of my head.
My stylist attacked my head with the razor as if there was a secret message written on my skull and she couldn't wait to read it. Suddenly she began gagging. I asked her if she was all right and she just ran out of the room yelling, "Gross!"
When she came back she explained that the razor had somehow shot my hair into her mouth. But she was OK now. She put the electric razor away and started on me with the scissors. A few seconds later she yelled ouch and dropped the scissors on the floor. She had cut her finger pretty good and had to go clean it and bandage it up. She came back a few minutes later and finished me up. I decided against asking her to groom my beard -- I pictured her putting her eye out or something.
I gave her an extra buck for hazzard pay. Who would have ever thought hairstyling would be such a dangerous profession?
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