2003-04-14 9:12 p.m.
On Rebellion and Haircuts
I got my taxes in today -- a whole day early!
This is how accountants' daughters rebel.
-=-
The woman who cuts both my and TheBoy's hair is out of town this week. He told me he really needs a haircut, and then eyed me hopefully.
Me: "No way am I cutting your hair, dude."
TheBoy: "Why not?"
Me: "Because I don't understand how you like it. You'll twiddle it one way and think it looks awful, then twiddle it another way and think it looks fine, and I can't tell the difference." (At this point I realize I'm being the boy in the relationship, and it kind of creeps me out.)
TheBoy: "It's not that hard. I want it like Coworker's."
Me: "You mean like a chemo patient?"
TheBoy: "No, not bald. A little longer than that."
Me: "You mean like a chemo patient after six weeks? No, I'm not cutting your hair."
I suggested that he talk to my brother or Turtledove about where they go -- and then remembered that Sweetcheeks' barber was also on vacation.
Sweetcheeks lives in my city, but he goes back to our home town to get his hair cut. (I say "back" as if he were wagon-training it over the Sierras or something, but it's actually about half an hour away. For purposes of this diary, let's call it Mayberry.)
Sweetcheeks has been having his hair cut by Carl the Barber since he was in junior high, when Carl's was the cool place to go. Mom and I couldn't quite figure out why, since the guy gave just passable haircuts, but I always suspected it had more to do with the ratty old Playboys lying around the shop. For a $20 investment in soft-core porn in 1970, Carl secured the loyalty of a generation of Mayberry boys.
Sweetcheeks ended up going to the shop around the corner from his apartment and reports that the cut was just "ehh."
TheBoy's? Still undone -- and I'm crossing my fingers for an opening over the weekend. I just can't take that kind of responsibility.