My Hair... Person.

I'm not even sure what you'd call them nowadays.

I think barber is kind of derogatory. Hair cutter makes sense, but you never hear it used. Hair stylist seems to be the most often cited term, but come on, at least in my case, all she's doing is dragging an electric trimmer over my lumpy scalp. There's not really any styling involved, unless you want to call "post-army crew cut" a style. Not that I was ever in the army, mind you, I just don't like messing with my hair. In other words, I wake up looking this good. Yeah, baby.

So my hair "stylist" to use the least derogatory term, is a bit of a "personality" shall we say. I think it started, oh, last summer or so, when i began to put on a little flab. I don't know whether she just has a thing for larger guys or what, but she began asking after my relationship status. Now I don't think she's hitting on me or anything, at least, she's married, so maybe she is, what the hell do I know, right? But I made the mistake of mentioning this blond chick at work next to me and my hair stylist suggested I ask her out. Since the blonde and I at work do not exactly get along, wait, that's not really true, we've never really had a problem with each other, it's more of an... we have no desire to "hang out" with the other person. At least, as far as I can tell, on her part, anyway. On my part, she's got great legs and if she'd hold still for 30 seconds I'd hump one of them. I may be exaggerating for humorous purposes. And maybe I'm not. But in any case, her ideas of fun and mine don't seem to jibe so I've decided to wait until she's 15 years older than she is now and maybe then we'll be able to make pleasant conversation. Since I'm already 16 years older than her and have stopped growing (at least emotionally) this approach seems to make sense. That I will probably have forgotten who she was 15 years from now never entered into my plan. I didn't say my plan was foolproof.

So after dodging the whole "dating a co-worker" issue with my hair stylist, my hair stylist changed her tactics. One day we were discussing fat, I can't quite remember how we hit that topic, and I was going to make a joke about being a porker myself. It's true, I have a spare tire. Okay, maybe a spare tire is a bit of an understatement, I could probably replace the tires on a semi. But she interrupted me in mid-comment to say "I've never been skinny myself, and I never will be" Me, being the polite sort, stopped trying to talk over her and let her continue. "My husband likes to have something to hold onto." she stated. Ah, I see, makes sense. No more needed to be said, but she continued anyway. "like a cowboy." Yes, I am not a moron, I got it the first time. I just nodded politely, smiling, hoping she gets that I.. no, she's continuing. "YEEEEEEEHHHAAAAWWWW!" she yells and then laughs.

Now it's not that this woman is unattractive and i certainly didn't mind briefly picturing her in a cute little cowgirl outfit, but my point is, that's probably more than i really wanted to know. If that had been the end of it, I'd have been happy. But no. Not at all. And it's not that I'm unhappy, it's just, I'm a rather private person (he says as he posts his every thought to the internet) and when people pry into my life I get, well, uncomfortable. It's rather like getting anally raped by a dildo, I mean, even if they use lube, it's going to be uncomfortable in some way. I have begun to suspect that my desire for privacy is why I have so few friends (ok, none), but then I think, naaaaaaahhhhh. Can't be.

So last week I'm getting my hair buzzed and she asks me if I am having a superbowl party. "Oh, is that this weekend?" i ask. I'm not trying to be a douche, I don't follow sports and have no friends, so I honestly had no idea the superbowl was this weekend. But she seems to get it, at least. "You don't even know who's playing, do you?" she asked. Smiling happily, I shake my head. I am proud of geekiness, and will take every opportunity to show off how little I know about sports, cars, and women. "Are you even a man?" she asks me. I'm not really sure what to tell her at this point because she's shaving my beard. I'm either the bearded circus lady in men's clothes, or yes, I am a man. "So they tell me?" I reply. Then, she somehow got onto the topic of why I come there to get my hair buzzed. My immediate response, when asked, would be, "because I am too lazy to do it myself." But, she was off on a tangent here and not up to being interrupted. Somehow she got the impression and I liked abuse and was only going to that place because i liked getting abused. Now, I like abuse as much as the next masochist, but i have no idea how she got that impression. So I am just trying to humor her and she's going off on it, telling me i'm a sick man and all. Well, I can't really argue with that, can I? So I agreed with her and that seemed to
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP
We interrupt this blog for a test of the spider alert system. If there had been an actual spider (or centipede) you would have been told to place your arms above your head, flail them wildly, scream like a little girl, and run in a random direction. Please note that there is no spider or centipede. This was only a test. You can put your arms down and stop screaming now. We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog.
===================================
smoking a cigarette and then I said "So see you in three weeks, then?" And she laughed.

Well, that's all for this blog. Review of Mass Effect 2 coming later.