Stylasaurus

I went for a haircut yesterday. I was in pretty dire need. My stylist or hairdresser or whatever he wants to be called, D, didn't recognize me at first because of my hot new shades. When he asked what I wanted done with my hair, I said that I let it grow long so he could do whatever he wanted, play around, do something new. "Oh. But it has to go with the new sunglasses, " I added. He said he was going to do variation on a theme.

I asked him how his graphic novel was coming. He said he'd abandoned that project a while ago. I said that I could relate, being the captain of Team Short Attention Sp-that dog has a puffy tail! which, I explained, is my dodgeball team. Now how, in this day and age, a grown man can not know what dodgeball is, I'll never know. But I had to explain it to him. He sounded incredulous, "you try to hit the people?" I assured him it was a lot of fun.

We got talking about clothes. I said I'd been shopping recently and I always take a girl shopping with me. He said "you should always take a fag shopping with you, instead." I pointed out that that's not really my target audience and rule number one is Know The Enemy.

We made some more small talk. He asked why I wasn't wearing my Heelys today. I explained that I can't wear them during the wet season because even in the best of conditions there's a reasonably good chance I'm going to fall and break my neck. I told him that I'd worn them during my recent vacation in San Francisco: "Hmm.. this seems like a bad idea. Oh well. Wheeeeeeeee!" In case you live under a rock, San Fran is not known for its level surfaces.

He finished up my hair. I paid. I'm never sure what to tip him. Any advice on that subject would be greatly welcome.

But most importantly, I put on the shades and checked the mirror.

You know, I think I might actually look too cool to be hanging out with myself anymore.