I love getting my hair cut. Getting the scalp rubbed. Tasty sweet smelling oils applied to my folicles to promote good chi. Goosebumps popping up on the right hand side of my body when the comb drags across the back of my neck and ears.
What I hate about getting my hair cut is never knowing what the hell to talk about with the stylist.
Movies and television tell me that I will catch up on all the neighborhood gossip when visiting the local barber: My suspicions about the postman and his intimate relationship with Delila the hat saleswoman and mother of that troublsome neighbor boy who sells imaginary cars outside his mother's shop will be confirmed as the stylist whispers confidential information into my ear between each snip.
Such is not the case. Not in Austin anyway.
Usually, before a hair appointment, I think of 6 topics that can be used as catalysts for a potentially firey and intense conversation.
By the time I got my hair washed, I had already used all 6 topics and was struggling with my impromptu "Gas Stations are excellent places to hold art showings."
Luckily, the hair stylist knew me through a mutal aquaintance that I had performed with earlier this year. In dull moments, she would pick up the ball with a, "He's a really great guy. So edgy."
"Very edgy.," I'd reply, "So edgy that sometimes people don't reallly know what he's talking about."
"Exactly!," she'd add.
Then another moment of silence would occur as chunks of my hair fell onto my smock.
"Nice smocks.," I said.
"Thanks. Don't worry, it's not real leather.," she responded.
"Okay. I won't. Ha. Ha.," I'd uneasily spew.
One of the odder moments of the entire haircut experience resulted from her exclaiming that I had a very "sexy androgynous look." I agreed, glad that she had thrown the 'sexy' part into the phrase.
"I got it! You remind me of David Duchovny."
I looked back at her, trying to figure out if I should take this as a compliment.
"David Duchovny is very sexy."
I still sat silent, not really sure what to say, so my mouth took it apon itself to remark, "Hells yeah. I'd fuck him twice if I had a chance."
The stylist nodded and continued to snip away while I avoided eye-contact with myself in the mirror. I didn't want to look at my reflection and suddenly realize that I was David Duchovny's twin. His 24-year-old oh-so-fuckable-it's-really-kind-of perverse female twin.
When the cut was finished, I checked out her work.
I admit, it looked good. She may have strange ways of handing out compliments, but she can cut her some damn nice-looking hair.
I'll show pictures later.. when it grows out a bit and I don't look like an extra in the musical Oliver!
On another note. You should head on over to this guy's place and give him a hardy congrats for being the victorious snatch magnet in the Diaryland Surivivor Contest. I was glad to be in the final two with him and was thrilled when he came out to be the man of choice.
By one mother fucking single vote.
Congrats TVZero, you winningest bastard, you.