This weekend I'm going home. Most of you know that means I'm heading to Louisville, some 3 hours from where I post these missives. It's been about a month, and there are people to see, things to do, and the ultimate conjugal visit. All of these things I enjoy and look forward to. The cigar party is the following weekend, and that needs my attention of planning, and well, you will hear more about that in subsequent chapters. It will be worth the wait.
I placed a call to Medusa today, but news to me, they don't take appointments after 10 AM on Saturday, and that won't work for me this time. I don't believe that, but didn't feel like arguing, since I had just spent 8 hours on the golf course (a whole OTHER post), and I just decided to plan a Plan B. (not the contraceptive, OOPS they forgot to wear a condom/she's not on the pill/he lost some jizz at the wrong time Plan B) but a real Plan B. I am disappointed I won't see my biker friend John or Jill, the hottest 50 year-old woman-I-know (Deb is >50, so I can safely say that, I think), at the salon, but I'll catch them next visit. But, I really do need a haircut.
Not to be too clinical, but I have hair in all the right places, and for me, at this age, that happens to be on the top of my head. That's both a blessing, and a curse. My more gray than semi-brown mane grows very fast. Especially the threads that tend to migrate over the ears. When just the right length, it looks (to me) OK. When too long, it looks (to me) yucky. It needs attention on a regular basis. If for no other reason that after I shower, I have such a short attention span, I don't want to take an extra 30 seconds to blow dry it when it's too long.
So my alternative this weekend will be to go to Fritz's. It's a Barber-Hooter's. They have chicks with cleavage acting like they know how to wield a shaver. I feel like going there because of my testosterone-laden golf outing and joint fantasy of the ball girl in the plaid shorts. I'm in an uber-guy mode, and I like the feeling. I'm going to run with that for awhile.
Fast-backward to 5 weeks ago. I needed yet again a haircut, but I was not near Medusa, John, Jill, or even silicone-valley Fritz. I was walking in Walmart. I needed propane cans, bird-seed, milk, and a haircut. I saw her. She looked thin (God bless her), she had teeth, and she wielded scissors at the Walmart barbery. Even tho she looked like her meth days were long past, I had a trust that she would be safe (not in the real Plan B sort of way), but that she could not do much harm in giving me a simple trim. She didn't. It only cost $15 (and I tipped an extra 10). I got her card and it's Scotch-taped on my cabinet door. One day I'll go back there. In he meantime, I'm really looking forward to the cigar party.
3 comments:
:)
You are getting, how shall I say, 'edgy' these days and me likey. Perhaps you should post pictures of your Wal-cut and your Fancy-cut and see if your faithful readers can tell the difference.
Cheers.
"Edgy"? Yea...we can go with that. Some might use another term to describe me here in my man-cave in rural EKY. I like the feeling though, whatever it is.
Speaking of haircuts, as they say, the difference between a good one and a bad one is...7 days.
(or as I told Ms barberette happy-pants, it's $30)
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